Phoenix Rising
by TemperenceTwilight
Summary: BWT S2-S3. WIP. Slash H/S, Het E/C. The past and present collid when a teenager with an uncanny resemblence to a certain Lieutenant needs help finding her mother's killer.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Phoenix Rising

Title: Phoenix Rising

Series: House of the Miami Sons

Rating: NC-17 or MA

Pairings: Horatio and Speed, Eric and Calleigh. Mentions of Horatio/OFC

Warnings: Slash. And some Het. Violence. If any of that bothers you, there is a back button :)

Disclaimer: No copy right infringement is intended with this piece. I only own CSI Miami DVDs. The characters, script, plot, etc. below to CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, Alliance Atlantis, and probably more people than I would want to count. (If I did own MIAMI, Speed wouldn't be dead, Ryan wouldn't have been fired, and a whole mess of other events wouldn't have happened). They all have lots of money and lawyers, so I wouldn't dare piss them off, seeing as I'm broke. I'm making no money from this. Although, if someone wanted to hire me to work for CSI Miami (hint, hint, hint!)...Anyway, this is just one interpretation of characters and events. I promise I'll return the characters (mostly) unharmed. Eventually.

Author's Notes: This is my first piece of fanfiction that I've even thought about putting up, so please be gentle. I'm learning as I'm going. If you don't like, explain to me (gently) in detail how to make it better! As for the story itself, it's the first in a large series I'm working on. Right now, it's all a WIP. I have an overall idea of what I want to happen but not the specifics. Basically, this started out as an alternative to the whole Kyle storyline and took on a life of it's own. Any ideas or suggestions would be helpful. Now! On with the Story!

Olivia "Livvie" Delacroix was having a really shitting day. In fact, it was one of those days where she wished she'd pursued her desired career in fashion instead of listening to her mother and majored in psychology. She'd slept through her alarm only to wake up in a sweat thanks to the AC being broken—again. She'd rush through the morning shower, cutting herself shaving, and tripped over her cat on the way out. She argued with her super—again—about the AC, and left convinced she was being cursed out in Spanish as she walked away.

She stood twenty minutes in line for a cafe late and a banana nut muffin just for them to get her order wrong. There was an accident of the freeway, so the cars in all four lanes traveled 5 miles per hour. She gotten to work an hour late, but in time for her boss, Madeline, chew her out.

When she finally made it to her office, she saw that there were already a pile of reports to type and a stack of charts to file. Half way through the aforementioned pile, her computer crashed, meaning she had to re-type and file everything. And of course, Dennis kept stopping by and bugging her. In how many ways did she have to say she wasn't interested until he'd get the hint, huh? She was seeing someone else, for God's sake.

After an hour and a half after everyone had left, she was still working and it looked like it would be another hour before she finished. Which was why she'd convinced herself to take a break and order dinner. Of course, by the time the Thai food got to her it was only luke warm. Sighing, she drew up her chocolate locks in a messy bun and dug in anyway.

Half way through the meal, Livvie heard a commotion. It sounded like someone banging one of the filing cabinets, but she couldn't be sure. Knowing she was the only one left in the office, she couldn't help but be a little worried. Maybe it's the security guard making his rounds, she thought.

Timidly, "Hello?" She got no answer.

She tried a little louder. Still no answer. Now concerned, she rummaged through her desk and found a letter opener. She did work at a shrink's office. For all she knew, someone had broken in trying to steal some prescription drugs. Of course, she could just be paranoid. No sense in calling the cops until she saw what was going on for herself.

Slowly, she walked down the dark hall. Most of the doors were locked but three weren't. She went to the first door. Dr. Hicks had once again left his computer on, the light of the screen saver hitting the back windows and reflecting the eerie blue around the room.

Suddenly, she heard shuffling. Beginning to tremble, she raised her letter opener. She took one step, then another, towards the second door. She heard the noise again. She was at the threshold when she caught a glimpse of clothing. She just entered the room when—

Damnit! She couldn't believe her luck today!

"What are you still doing here?!"

Early the next morning, Lt. Horatio Caine drove the department issued Hummer up to the entrance of the parking garage of the Le Descreux building in downtown Miami, the attendant letting him through. CSI Timothy Speedle rode on his yellow Ducati right behind him. Minutes later, the two agents reached the sixth floor. H glanced at the sign on the wall before he headed down the hall. _The Practice of Keaner, Claymore, Hicks and Driscoll M.D._ The patrol officer at the front door led them to murder scene.

Standing in the room was a tall, Hispanic woman with long, curly brown hair in a pale beige shirt and a pair of matching slacks, a police badge at her side. Next to the body was a tall African American woman, her long hair pulled back into a high pointy-tale.

"It just wasn't your day, was it sweetheart?" the ME asked, gently raising her head.

"What do we have?" Horatio asked, folding his shades in his suite pocket. Speed got his camera from his kit and started documenting the scene.

"Olivia Delacroix, age 26, an employee at the practice," said Detective Yelina Salas. "She was found by the office manager, Madeline Ferenc, a little less than an hour ago. According to Ferenc, Olivia stayed late to finish up."

"And she got killed for her trouble," Alexx Woods said. "She has one contusion to the frontal lobe, more bruising around the wrists and upper arms. Some defensive wounds on her hands. I'll take some fingernail scrapings to DNA. It looks like our girl might have gotten a piece of our suspect. As for what killed her, I would have to say it would be the multiple stab wounds from a narrow blade, like a letter opener maybe."

"A weapon of opportunity," Horatio said. "Maybe Ms. Delacroix snuck onto our killer during the commission of another crime. What would you say time of death was, Alexx?"

"Considering this is an office building that keeps the AC on low twenty-four hours a day..." the ME looked up. "I would say somewhere between 7 and 9 pm."

"A little too early for a drug B & E," he said to Salas. She nodded in agreement. Just then, the rest of the team arrived.

"Mornin' Horatio," Calleigh Duquesne said as she slowly stepped in. The blonde Southern Belle was dressed in all black. Right beside her was a tall Latino dressed in jeans a blue T-shirt.

"Morning Calleigh. Alexx says were looking for a narrow blade as our murder weapon, possibly a letter opener."

"I'll start scrongin' them up and begin testing then," she said.

"Eric, check with the office manager to see if anything else is missing or out of place. Ask specifically if they keep prescriptions on hand."

"You got it, H."

"Speed, you know what to do."

"Yeah, I'll see if I can get any trace off the clothes after I finish the scene." As Speed continued to work, Horatio glanced around the room. It was like any other doctor's office: a desk decorated with a few pictures and in the back of the room with a tall, leather chair behind it. Two chairs in front of it, a filing cabinet along the side wall.

He stepped closer to the filing cabinet, the scrapings around the key hold of the top draw catching his eye. "Looks like someone wanted in this cabinet badly." Speed and Detective Salas both walked to where Horatio was standing. Speed adjusted his lens. The camera snapped.

"Yeah, but these don't look like your normal tool marks," the Colombian born detective commented.

"Calleigh!" It took a moment but the blonde was back.

"Take a look at these marks. Care to guess what made them?" The blonde peered at the key hole. "If I didn't know better I would say that someone tried to pry the lock with a nail filer. Silly thing is, someone was wasting their time. These cabinets have an electric lock as well as a manual. Just because you can't see the electric lock doesn't mean it doesn't work." She smiled. "And this isn't the only cabinet I've seen it on. Just checked the office right next door for a letter opener. I couldn't help but notice Dr. Hicks' cabinets had similar marks."

"Whatever in those cabinets is confidential patient information," Speed said. "The only reason someone would want in them is to find a file and get the dirt on someone."

"Or see what was in their own," Horatio added. "There's the commission of our other crime. Speed, please process the cabinets for prints once you're done."

"You got it, H."

"I'll go back to looking for the murder weapon and then see what we can get from Olivia Delacroix's desk," Calleigh said. Yelina's pager went off. She glanced down at it.

"Robbery, 45th and West," Yelina said. She didn't need to voice her question; he could garner it from the look in her eye.

"I'll let you take it and I'll send the first CSI that clears this scene to you," he said.

"Alright then. We'll keep each other posted?'

"Yes, yes we will." Yelina took slow steps out into the hall. The blood had pooled beneath the body, but was slowly seeping outward. The last thing they needed was to spread it around the building.

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" A man's voice sounded out from the hall. "Who's the person in charge here?" Horatio stepped outside.

"That would be me, Mr..."

"Dr. Claymore, that's my office you're in," said the man. He looked to be in his middle thirties, average height and build. He had short, wavy, dark brown hair and dark brown eyes.

"How can I help you?" Horatio asked, tilting his head slightly. As he had been talking with his CSIs, Alexx had signaled for her loyal body haulers. It was at that exact moment that they pulled Olivia Delacroix out on a stretcher. Dr. Claymore looked at the black bag and, for a moment, closed his eyes.

"I realize that something unbelievably horrible and tragic happened here—happened in my office—but this is a private practice. We have patients to see. The rest of our staff is slowly making it in and being halted at the door. What am I suppose to do?"

"I afraid, sir, you're going to have to close down for at least a week. As far as I'm concerned, the entire floor is a crime scene. But the more you cooperate, the quicker we'll find out who did this. Now, tell me, do you regularly leave you office door open?"

"Ah, no," Dr. Claymore answered. "But my last appointment ran over and it was my wife's and I five year anniversary, so I left in a hurry. Why is that important?"

"Just another piece of the puzzle. How many people have access to the inner office?"

"Ah, I don't know," the doctor shrugged. "Maybe a dozen. Me, the other doctors in the practice; we have three nurses on staff, three receptionists, three medical assistants—secretaries—and two accountants, plus our office manager. The building owner employs janitorial staff to do all the cleaning, and they have access to keys into the main hall, although not the offices. The building owners contract out to a security firm that randomly makes rounds. They would have keys. I think that's about it."

"And what about Ms. Delacroix's job kept her so late?"

"She's Dr. Hicks' secretary. He easily gets bogged down, like I do, so he hired her on about a year ago. He sees as many patients a day as he can fit in, so the paperwork often piles up. It's not the first time she's stayed after to finish it."

"Okay. I'm going to need a list of all your employees and to get a statement from each where he or she was last night. That'll be all, for now, but we need you to be ready to come down to the station in the event more questions arise," Horatio said as he eyed the doctor.

"Oh, of course, anything to find out who did this." Horatio left the man and went down the hall. He watched as Eric talked with a woman in her early forties with mossy brown hair. Eric thanked her for her cooperation and then went to H.

"Madeline Ferenc, office manager," Eric Delko said, signally back to the woman in the grey dress suit. "She came in at 7 o'clock, was turning on the lights when she discovered the body. She called the police. According to her, everyone cleared out of the office around 6:15 pm except the victim. She's sure of that because she was the last person to leave. And, according to her, the practice does keep some medication in the office, but the door doesn't appear to be tampered with, but considering you need a key and a key card to get into this place..."

"They might have already had a key," Horatio finished his thought.

""I'm getting ready to process the vic's desk," the Russian-Cuban said. "Along with a stack of files they're probably going to say we can't take because of doctor-patient privilege, there's a half eaten box of Thai curry, a drink, and some egg roles. It looks like someone interrupted her dinner break."

"Good work, Eric," H said. "Locate the receipt from the restaurant. That delivery person might have been the second-to-last person to see her alive."

"Sure will, H." Horatio went to leave as Eric called for him. "H, if our killer wasn't looking to score drugs and already had access to the building during the daylight hours because they worked here, why risk coming back at night and why kill someone here. I mean, she was their co-worker or their employee. That makes everyone working here a suspect."

"Good questions, Eric," he said, looking him square in the eye. "And there's only one way to find out."

As bad as Olivia Delacroix's day had been, the CSI team's day was about to get worse. A Greyhound bus from Phoenix, Arizona, had just pulled into the Miami station. The person on it was about to change their lives.

Good? Bad? Like and want more? Or don't?


	2. Chapter 2

When Horatio made it back to the Miami-Dade Crime Lab, it was close to noon

When Horatio made it back to the Miami-Dade Crime Lab, it was close to noon.

Walking up to the front desk he asked, "Paula, do I have any messages?" The petite, blonde patrol officer handed him over three slips of paper with a smile.

"That's not all, either," she said. "You've kinda got a visitor."

"Really," he said, curiosity peaked. If it had been someone from another agency, like the Feds, Paula would have warned him.

"Yeah, I sent her to wait in the atrium," Paula responded. "Teenager. She was starting to get a couple of stares. She wouldn't tell me her name, but asked for you by name, and said she would talk to only you. Although, she didn't seem to know that you were the dayshift supervisor for the lab. I finally got her to sign the visitor's log, sighting it as procedure." Paula showed him the log.

"Rosalind Franklin," Horatio chuckled, "the scientist who used crystallography to determine that DNA had a double helix structure, giving Watson and Crick the final insight into the true form of DNA."

"I wouldn't have known if I hadn't heard Valera and Delgado talking about a special on woman scientists on the Discovery Channel just the day before," Paula said.

"Well, I'll just have to see what Ms. Franklin has to say," H said, heading straight to the atrium. What he saw had him pausing just inside the door.

A girl between the ages of 14 and 17 sat on one of the black pleather benches. Like most teenagers he came in contact with, she wore jeans a light green T-shirt. But it was the hair the caught his attention. Auburn red locks, a shade of red darker than his own, yes, but her natural highlights were strawberry-blonde, his color indeed. Her hair was clipped in such a way that the ponytail fell forward, the locks becoming spiked. In the light, it appeared that she had a halo of fire.

Bright, pure blue eyes looked up at him, cutting across his soul. He almost wanted to take a step back. So much anguish and fear projected in a single moment. Then the walls came down, hiding it all away.

"Hi, I'm Horatio Caine. I've been told you need to speak to me." The teenager shot out of her seat.

"Yeah, yeah I-I--I need your h--he--help." Her voice was shaking with unshed tears. Horatio crossed the distance between them in less than a second.

"Hey, hey, hey. Whatever it is, I'm sure I can help." He whipped out a handkerchief and handed to her. She took it and rubbed her eyes.

"I nn-need to ss--show you something," the girl started fumbling at the satchel she was carrying, digging something out. "She said--she said you would recognize it."

She held up a necklace. It was a gold medallion with a woman dressed in a habit in the dead center, her hands folded in prayer. Above the small caricature was the lettering "Saint Monica." Below, "Is est impossible ut parvulus of tot lacrima pereo."

It took him a couple of moments for him to remember exactly where he had seen that particular necklace. Years ago, when he still was a new CSI with a background in narcotics.

Softly, "Where did you get this?"

"It was my mom's." A broken sob escaped her lips. "S-s-she said...she said that if anything should happen to her, to go to you. You would recognize it, you would help me."

He caught the verb tense. "Was?"

The girl wiped her eyes again. "She was murdered. Three days ago. I think the same people that killed her are still after me and...and I don't think they are the only people looking for me."

"Okay," Horatio said, trying to calm her down. "We're going to go to my office, okay? And we'll start from the beginning, and we'll figure out where to go from there." The girl shook her head rapidly.

Speed and Eric made it back to the lab together, with Calleigh heading to Yelina's B&E.

"I'll hand off the fingerprint samples we took to Joseph and log the letter opener into evidence," Eric said.

"I'll see what this substance on her shirt was and see if her clothes are dry enough to process for more evidence," Speed said.

"Killed with her own letter opener," Eric just shook his head. "Only to have the killer clean it and put it back in her desk. How does that make sense?"

"Makes as much sense as any of the violence in Miami does," Speed commented. "She hears a noise. She grabs something to defend herself and goes to investigate it. Some home owners get shot with their own guns during a home invasion. She got stabbed with her own weapon of choice."

"Speaking of the crime scene..." Eric trailed off. He found the floor fascinating for a moment and then at whatever the lab techs were doing behind Speed. If the older, scruffier CSI didn't know better, he would have thought his friend was nervous. Speed tried to patiently wait for Eric to finish, but when Eric still hadn't said anything and they were standing in the hall like idiots, he gave up.

"Spill it, Delko, we don't have all day."

"You made it to the crime scene pretty quick today," Eric said.

"You're clocking me when I make it to a crime scene?" He asked incredulously. This coming from the guy who, until a couple months ago, made it a toss up of whether he would get to the crime scene or not.

"No, it's just that your apartment is across town. I mean, in the morning rush hour, there's no way you would have been able to make it as early as you did." Speed knew what his friend was hinting at, but got a perverse pleasure out of making him spell it out.

"So you're accusing me of breaking numerous traffic laws to get to work? I'm not_ that _invested in my paycheck."

Eric was exacerbated. "You practically showed up with Horatio. Is there something you want to tell me?" Speed gave him his best 'I don't know what the hell you're talking about' stare.

This was dangerous territory. Eric was implying that Speed got to crime scene early because he'd slept somewhere else besides his apartment. This conversation could go either one of two ways. One: Eric thought Speed was holding out on him about dating a new girl and wanted to know who she was. Two: Eric specifically thought that he was with Horatio at Horatio's apartment. That he and Horatio were together—as in a relationship. While the second option would have required a great leap in thinking, Speed knew the CSIs spent too much time together that Eric could have easily connected the dots.

It was true, and that was the problem. Once anyone found out that Horatio was in a relationship with not only a subordinate—because that was pretty bad to begin with—but a male subordinate no less, both of their careers would be over. Of course, nothing at the lab changed. Nothing was allowed to compromise the lab. That was Horatio's number one rule. But it wouldn't matter. IAB would have a field day—Stetler personally would be doing a jig around his office. Speed had to derail this line of thinking and fast.

It wasn't like no one at the lab knew. Keeping anything from Alexx was worse than trying to hide things from your mother. One look at him and she seemed to pick thoughts out of his head. Calleigh had stumbled on the truth over dinner one night. Tim had been cooking and had his back to her when she suddenly appeared with one of Horatio's shirts in her hands.

_"I found this in the bathroom," Calleigh said with a smirk as she then proceeded to showcase the shirt. "Care to explain?"_

_"I let Horatio use my bathroom. So what?" had been his quick, almost too quick response. Calleigh raised her eyebrows._

_"Why would he be changing in your bathroom when he could have easily done it at the lab, or his bathroom, huh?" And in that moment, Speed knew they had been caught_.

Calleigh, he supposed, could have accidently let something slip, but that would be very uncharacteristic of the blonde. So either Eric was fishing or he had some solid proof and wanted Speed to explain it away.

"Uh, the man drives a big, shiny military vehicle with the words 'Crime Scene Investigation' on the side of it in big, bold letters, Eric. He's hard to miss speeding down the highway. Maybe I just tailed him to work." It wasn't technically lying, though it wasn't telling the truth either. It was letting Eric draw his own conclusions, manipulating the evidence in his favor. Wasn't there a term for it, even? Equivocal evidence. When the evidence could equally go for as well as against a suspect, they had to interpret the evidence in the suspect's favor.

"Besides," Speed added, suddenly thinking of that morning's arrival order, "you and Calleigh showed up practically joined at the hip. By your logic, you two could..." He stopped when he caught the shocked and guilty expression on Eric's face. "You and Calleigh?!"

"SSSHHH! Can you shout it any louder?!" Eric hissed.

"I thought she was dating Hagen." The name was spit out like Speed had just eaten something sour. It wasn't something Tim could pin down, but there was just something shady about the former Narcotics detective that made him uncomfortable on a scene. That he had tried to tamper with some of the evidence regarding a murder case by trying to convince Eric to ignore it, and on top of that yelled at Calleigh, didn't put him in the best light as well.

"Well, she isn't anymore," Eric said between gritted teeth. Apparently Eric, always the jealous type, wasn't too fond of the guy, either. Tim put up his hands in surrender.

"Hey, neither you nor Calleigh told me about you two, or that Hagen was a touchy subject."

"You're right," Eric agreed. "I'm sorry I snapped, it's just...complicated." Tim gauged his friend. Since he'd accidently just found out about his two friends dating each other, he guessed whatever happened was relatively new and, considering they were co-workers, complicated. It was something he could understand.

"I bet." Something on his face must have given him away because Eric's eyes held a hint of surprise.

"Hey, how about we go for drinks after work, the three of us? We haven't done that in awhile." An opportunity to grill him in private. Why would he pass that up?

"Sure, but not for long, and it will depend on whether or not we need to go back to the scene of the crime when we'll be leaving. Which means we've got to process the evidence we've got first."

"Right. Fingerprints, trace. I'll see you in an hour."

Speed walked into the trace lab and started processing. It wasn't until Eric came in that he realized an hour had past, and Horatio hadn't stopped by. He glanced up at Horatio's office. The redhead was standing by the window, but he was facing his office as if he was talking to someone. He hoped it wasn't IAB or the FBI. Stetler had an uncanny ability to piss his lover off, and Sackheim was no better. Why everyone thought keeping the Crime Lab out of the information loop helped them solve crimes was a mystery.

But whoever it was, whatever they were saying must be pretty serious because he could tell that Horatio was just getting tenser and tenser.


	3. Chapter 3

Story Notes: This is a bit of the introduction of Miranda. I realized later not only did I not exactly explain what happened to her mother, but that she could come off as too talkative. I'm chalking that up to her being stressed and nervous, because in my head, she's more reserved.

"Let's start with your real name," Horatio said after he sat her down in one of his chairs. "Because you are much too young to be Rosalind Franklin."

"Miranda Sauer. S-A-U-E-R," she answered. "Everyone tries to spell it Sawyer," she explained. Horatio smirked a little. He'd seen a fire spark in her eyes. If he could bring that out a little more, then maybe he could get her through this ordeal.

"Miranda? As in Miranda Prospero from _The Tempest_?"

"Yeah. One of my mom's favorite plays. Personally, I think the character is a bit hypocritical and lacks some spine, but Mom...my mom said my name means 'extraordinary' or 'wonderful,' wh-wh-ich is what I am tt-oo her. Or was." She paused and started tapping her feet, looking around the room. After a moment of gaining control of herself, she said, "I tell everyone I'm named after the _Maranda vs. Arizona_ case, though."

"The Supreme Court case. Forgive me, but you seem a little to young to be taking criminology courses."

"My school offers a course called Modern American History," Miranda said, smiling. "It primarily focuses on the Red Scare, the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam protests, legal cases, the war on drugs, and stuff like that. Technically, you have to be a senior to take it, but I needed another class. I talked my teacher to letting me take it along side the regular American History class."

"That must mean you're pretty smart," he commented. It was always good to know how smart the person was you were dealing with, even the victims, Horatio knew. Most criminals were stupid, and had stupid, selfish reasons for committing the crimes they did. But the few smart ones knew how to cover their tracks very well, and it was only by analyzing them that one could find the proof when the forensic evidence was lacking.

With victims, it was a matter of how to make a connection, of how to ask the right questions to find the missing evidence; whether it was something the perp did, wore, smelled like, or, in tons of cases, what they weren't wearing or didn't smell like.

"Smart like my mom." She lost the smile on her face. "Although, she always said I was smart like my dad. Doesn't matter though. Not smart enough, apparently," she answered solemnly. "I couldn't see what was in front of my eyes. With my mom. With everything."

He decided then to sit right across from her, to look her straight in the eye as he asked the tough questions.

"What was the name they gave her, and when exactly did you learn you two were in witness protection?"

"Martina, but everyone called her Mardi. Apparently her real name was Monica, like the saint," she said as glanced at the medallion on his desk. "I found out after she died. I think I was with police for maybe four hours, just sitting in a room, when the FBI showed up and citied jurisdiction. I mean, one of the detectives, Rouvin I think, asked me whether I knew anything, but what she asked me just wasn't making sense, you know? Then the FBI shows up and says I'm in their program and I'm coming with them. That my life was a complete fake. The agent explained it in the car, but he didn't give me any details either."

"Then how did you mom explain me?" Miranda pulled at the necklace around her neck. It looked like something she had made herself. It was a small key on a chain with a mixture of blue, green and red beads surrounding it.

"A couple of weeks ago, someone broke into our apartment."

_Miranda was up the stairs with her mom, both carrying grocery bags when they got to the landing. They quickly noticed the door was cracked open._

_"You did lock the door before you headed for the car, right?" her mom asked, putting down the bags._

_"Of course! I swear it!" Miranda almost shouted. She was forgetful but not _that_ forgetful._

_"Okay, pumpkin, this is what I need you to do," her mom said calmly, gripping her on the shoulders. "I need you to call 911 while I check the house. Whatever you hear, don't go in, understand me?"_

_"But Mom—"_

_"In fact, I want you to wait in lobby for the cops, okay?"_

_"But what if someone's still in there?" Miranda whispered. Her mom cradled her face._

_"That's exactly why I need you to go call the police, alright?" Reluctantly, Miranda shook her head and started making her way down the stairs to the lobby, pulling her cell phone out of her handbag. She watched her mom slowly open the door and enter their home._

_"911. What's your emergency?"_

"Whoever it was tossed the place but the only thing they took was my mom's laptop," Miranda explained. "It really freaked her out. Then, a couple of days later, she thought someone was following us."

_They were in the car. Usually they drove straight through the light and then turned on the Commerce St., but today her mother signaled left and took it while Miranda was reading through her notes. It was because the turn was so unusual that she looked up from her book and stared out the window._

_"Mom, where are we going?" she asked, her voice rising. "We just turned onto Tuscany. School's the other way." She watched as her mom glanced at the rearview mirror and then back at the steering wheel. _

_"You'll get to school on time, don't you worry about it. I'm just trying to get out of the heavier traffic." Her mom looked at the rearview again. Suddenly, she decided to change lanes and takes another left turn._

_"Ah, you do realize we just went back two blocks, right?" Miranda was starting to get nervous. Her English final exam was in less than half an hour and she couldn't be late. _

_Her mother briefly closed her eyes in frustration. "MIA! You WILL get to school, okay? Just let me do what I need to do without anymore questions." Her mom glanced at the rearview again. This time, Miranda couldn't help but look back herself. Leaning through the gap between the front seats, she peered back. There were several cars. None of them stood out._

_"Don't do that!" her mom shouted, moving one hand off the steering wheel long enough to grab her and nudge her forward. "Look straight. Keep studying." Miranda, now puzzled, waited and watched her mom check the mirror again. Sure, Miranda had learned when her best friend's older sister was in Driver's Ed that you were suppose to check your mirrors continuously, but every five seconds? Her mother hadn't bothered before. _

_"Mom, you're acting weird. I mean, really weird." Her mother closed her eyes for a second again, sighing._

_"I don't want you to get upset, alright?" she stated, looking her daughter in the eye. Miranda nodded._

_"I think we're being followed."_

"She later said everything was taken care of, but she kept triple checking all the locks and installing a new security system, and changing how we got to school. And once school let out, she wouldn't let me stay at home by myself." Miranda's voice had been rising and rising, going faster and faster until she was almost out of breath. She made herself stop and took a ragged breath, just breathing for a moment or two.

"Sorry," she said. "I--I--I had all--this--thought out in my head. What I was going to say, you know, and how I was going to say it and—"

"Miranda," Horatio cut her off, "you're a human being that has just endured a traumatic loss. No one, especially not me, will find fault for you being emotional." The girl nodded and took a shaky breath.

"My mom told me about you two days before she died," Miranda said in a rush. "Horatio Caine. Horatio, as in Horatio from _Hamlet_ and Horatio Alger. My mom said she knew you from years ago and if anyone was really after her...that if anything happened to her to go to you. That you would know who to investigate. That I could only trust you. That even if it meant running from the police, the FBI, the CIA, MI6 and whoever else came after me, that I get to you. She gave me necklace to show you as proof of who she was."

She paused to catch her breath. "I know this all sounds crazy. I mean, it all sounds crazy to me and I'm the one living it. But it was the way Mom said it as much as what she said, you know? She was scared...and I...I tried to ask her stuff, but she wouldn't answer."

Then, just above a whisper, "She lied to me."

And that, Horatio realized, was what was upsetting her as much as her mother's death. The teen clearly felt that if she hadn't been kept in the dark she would have been able to stop the events from unfolding as they had. That her mother hadn't trusted her with the truth. He couldn't take the pain caused by her mother's death away, couldn't ease it yet, but at least he could make her see that couldn't blame herself for events that were out of her control.

"Sometimes," Horatio said slowly, "sometimes the people we love keep secrets from us because they're protecting us." Like he hadn't told Yelina the truth about Madison's paternity, letting her assume that Madison was his daughter, in order to protect her from more hurt. Learning that your husband was possibly a dirty cop was bad enough. Knowledge of an affair would have devastated her.

Crystal blue eyes met crystal blue. Miranda had the same oval face as her mother's, similar jaw structure and cheekbones, fair features. Yet their eyes were so different. Not just the color—he knew when he let Monica Sullivan Castenada walk out of his life that he wasn't going to forget those chartreuse green eyes that stared back at him longingly as she'd boarded that plane—but the tone within them. Monica's eyes, even in her darkest hours, were filled with a warmth and wisdom that came with having persevered through previous struggles. Miranda's eyes, however, held intensity in them, like burning blue flames.

It was again that he was suddenly struck that sense of familiarity, almost a sense of déjà vu. He'd looked at Madison in the Keaton home and had the same feeling. One look and he was sure she was kin: she has Ray's eyes, his mind had said. Why was he having that feeling again?

Miranda chuckled darkly. "That's what she said."

"Because it's true," he continued. "Parents try to protect their children as best they can from the evils in this world, especially the evils they know first hand. And, if I understand the message your mom was trying to convey, she knew that telling you the truth might put you in more danger."

He paused for a moment to let her digest.

"Miranda, you said federal agents took you into their custody...yet, you're here. Can you explain that?" He tilted his head.

"Someone killed them," she gulped.

_She was laying in the motel bed, staring at the drab, peach ceiling, the hot pink light from sign of the bar next door beating through the window blinds. She was still dressed in her clothes, although they weren't the clothes she put on this morning--those were taken for evidence. Still had her tennis shoes strapped on, her satchel on the floor beside the bed. _

_Miranda was holding her mother's necklace, the golden chain wrapped around her fingers, stroking it with her thumb. She wasn't trying to sleep, knew she couldn't despite how tired she was. Her mom was... dead. Gone. Just that. Two shots. Miranda had been right beside her and she hadn't heard a thing. How could she sleep after that?_

_The two agents guarding her—who she'd dubbed Agent Smith and Agent Jones thanks to the non-answers they gave her—were in the other room. One was quietly watching TV while the other was doing...something. Well, not sleeping. They were supposed to leave Phoenix and go to an "undisclosed" location in the morning. So they would be guarding her all night. That might have been comforting if they weren't being so evasive about everything._

_A knock on the door. The agents shuffling. Muffled voices. Maybe there would be a changing of the guard after all? Or maybe it was someone with dinner. Didn't they say something about ordering pizza? Not that she could eat. She felt like she could throw up. She'd had a soda at the police station, and even that was threatening to come up._

_If she hadn't turned towards the door, she might have missed it. The "pish-pish." The sound of a silencer. Or, at least, how it sounds like on all those cop shows._

_Crazy, but she didn't think the Feds shot people with silencers. BANG. BANG. Miranda scrambled to the other side of the bed, rolled onto the floor and covered her ears. More gunfire. More shots from the silencer. Ohgodohgodohgod. The guy who killed her mom was here. Ohgodohgodohgod. What was she suppose to do if he killed Smith & Jones? Ohgodohgodohgod. She had to get out of here!_

_Miranda grabbed her satchel and darted to the window, heaving as she opened it. Someone kicked the locked door that connected the two rooms. Not bothering to glance back, she climbed up the ledge and dropped down onto the alley below. And kept running._

"A couple of blocks away was a Greyhound station. I remembered what Mom said about you and got on a bus to Dallas, and from Dallas to Baton Rouge, and then from there to Miami. I used the money Mom gave me for shopping and the cash I already had from tutoring. I used all of it to get here. I didn't know what else to do," Miranda finished.

"So, when you said, you didn't think the killer was the only one looking for you..."

"I'm pretty sure the Feds are looking for me," Miranda said with a sideways smirk. "I mean, even if I wasn't somehow in the witness protection program being chased by a killer that shot two agents, I'm fourteen, although I'll be fifteen in less than a month. That's still in Amber alert territory, right? And there's that whole crossing-state-lines thing. I guess that makes me as close to being a piece of federal property as a person can be," she joked.

Horatio couldn't help but grin a little back. If she could joke after just recounting her ordeal, then he could get her through this. He looked at the clock. It was almost lunch time.

"Well, I'm claiming priority over the Feds. Now, tell me, have you eaten anything today?" He could tell what the answer was by the way her eyes suddenly shot down.

"I was so worried about making it all the way here, I didn't spend much. In fact, I kinda asked this lady for help. To pa-pay for the cab. And she actually let me ride with her and had me dropped off here." She rushed to finish. "I got her address on her driver's license to mail her the same amount back once I was settled."

Horatio felt a mixture of emotions. Happy that Monica had raised a good and smart kid. Amazement that Miranda had found a good Samaritan in this town.

"That's easy enough to settle. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to order us some pizza, if that's alright with you-"--she nodded her head rapidly--"and I'm going to let you nap in my office while we're waiting for it to arrive. After we eat, we'll work on repaying that woman back and dealing with any complications with the Feds."

"My mom's killer?" she asked timidly.

Horatio smiled although his heart wasn't in it. "That too." He went to the phone at his desk. "So the easiest way to get started is to find out what kinds of pizza do you like?"

"The kind with extra cheese and pepperoni," she shyly replied.

"You know what? That's my favorite kind too." He started dialing one of the local take-out places. "And drinks?"

"Whatever soda you've got here is fine. Except Pepsi. I think I had like, five cans of Pepsi at the last police station I was at."

Horatio chuckled. "Okay. I'll see what I can find. The vending machines are emptied rather quickly around here."

He placed their order as Miranda moved over to the couch and curled up against one of the armrests. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes.

"I did say something about a nap," he hinted to her as he waited for the person on the other line to get back with him.

She blinked rapidly. "I don't want to waste valuable time..."

"You'll be able to tell me more once you have gotten a reprieve." He had only met her twenty minutes ago and she already reminded him of Monica. Her stubbornness, her persistence. The way she meticulously watched his every movement, even at the edge of exhaustion.

"If you say so..." Miranda removed her shoes and tucked them under the couch, placing her satchel along side them. She stretched out, one arm reaching under her head to cradle her head against the armrest. "Could you promise to wake me..."

"...as soon as it arrives, of course." Which was going to be in half an hour, or so he had just been told. She smiled lightly and closed her eyes.

He put down the phone and started on some of the paperwork that always seemed to pile up on his desk. He wanted to dive in to Monica's murder immediately, collect all the old case information and demand the Feds turn over whatever they had, but it would do no good to be hasty. He needed to curb the compulsion, or the Feds would sweep in and take Miranda away before he'd even begun to help her. It would be good for the lab for him to do a little bit of the reports done too, because he got the feeling that the lab's reports were going to be backlogged for the foreseeable future.

The next time he looked up, he could tell Miranda was dead asleep. Even though she had initially laid out across the couch, she had curled herself in a ball, making her look years younger. Slowly, his eyes drifted to the clock. Twenty minutes had passed. Now was a good time to grab the drinks, as it was still before the lunch-rush at the lab and they wouldn't cool off too much before the pizza arrived.

He almost went to tell her where he was going, but then did a brief calculation in his head. She hadn't slept well in three days, traveling across the country, probably terrified and grief-stricken every minute of it. Better to let her rest.

But that thought brought other unbidden ones as he walked to the vending machines. Monica had told her daughter that Horatio would know who killed her, indicating that it was someone connected to the Rafael Castenada case. Or so she thought. But the last time he had checked, Rafael was still in prison. Half of his associates were still in prison.

Even if he wasn't, how would he have been able to find Monica? Horatio had many complaints about federal agents, the Federal Bureau of Investigation in particular, yet they were generally good at keeping those in Witness Protection taken care of. Castenada or any of his associates couldn't have gotten the information without being caught.

If it wasn't Rafael though, who else would want her dead? If it wasn't about the case that had put her in witness protection, why had someone gone after the federal agents involved and attacked them as well? Miranda had only heard the events through a door. Had it been another agent or someone who appeared benign that was let in to the hotel room?

Then there was the murder. If there was an issue of the protected being in danger, the US Marshalls were well equipped at handling it. The situation shouldn't have become so dire that Monica could have been killed. Clearly, she had kept in contact with someone: the Feds rushed in and taken probably before the locals had gotten finished processing the scene and cataloging the evidence.

Lastly, there was Miranda. After all these years, Monica still had enough unwavering trust in him to send her child to him. That thought alone was a little overwhelming. He knew there was a couple of strings he could pull to keep the girl in his custody until the issue was resolved, but what about after?

While she hadn't told him much about her life, Miranda had only mentioned a father in passing. "_Smart like my mom." She lost the smile on her face. "Although, she always said I was smart like my dad. Doesn't matter though."_ From the sound of it, her father wasn't in her life. Monica's family was a dead end, seeing as she wasn't close to them before she had gone into the Witness Protection program fifteen years ago.

Fifteen years ago. _"I'm fourteen, although I'll be fifteen in less than a month. That's still in Amber alert territory, right?"_ That would make her birthday in July, her conception most likely…he counted back the months… in September. September 1988.

Horatio stopped in the hallway. That would have been around the time he and Monica were together.

That brought an altogether different unbidden thought. _What if I'm her father?_


	4. Chapter 4

"So, do we want the good news or the bad news first

"So, do we want the good news or the bad news first?" Eric said.

"Let's start with the bad," Tim replied dryly. He was reading the test results from the infrared spectrophotometer.

"Checked with the Thai restaurant. The delivery guy said he didn't see anything unusual. Said the victim was fine when he left her," Eric started. "The letter opener was whipped clean. No fingerprints, anyway. We've got a bit of stuff on it that's more up your alley than mine. We've still got to wait for Valera to get back with us about confirming the victim's DNA on the blade. Plus, Joseph is still going through the fingerprints, but so far, we've got no unidentified able ones."

Speed sighed. "Okay. Good news is we could find something later?"

"Good news is all the office staff we talked to said Olivia was having problems with Dr. Dennis Keaner. Rumor had it they were having an affair and she broke it off. Guess who failed to report to the office today?"

Speed's eyebrow went up. "It's not his day off?"

"He failed to call in and cancel his appointments today too."

"Rude, inconsiderate and a potential murder suspect; and everyone wonders why I hate going to the doctor."

"Well, do you have anything to support that theory?"

"I've got traces of hand lotion, I guess," Speed answered. "Though if it means anything, I don't know. Could be transfer during the struggle or could be she just whipped her hands on her blouse." He put the paper down on his table. "You called H yet?"

"Just going to." Eric whipped out his cell phone. "H, it's Eric. We've got a possible suspect in Olivia Delacroix's murder. A doctor who she had an affair with didn't show up to work today." He waited for a moment. "You got it H."

He slipped the phone back into his pants pocket.

"H said to take you and call Yelina to go talk to the doc," Eric said.

"Hmm." Speed wondered what possibly was keeping his boss/lover busy. H almost always led the investigation. "Better call Yelina then. It's that or I start trying to match the hand lotion to the brand."

That was something Speed wasn't looking forward to: calling up companies and asking for chemical analysis. Usually he was told it was proprietary information and they wouldn't tell him without a grand jury subpoena. It made him feel _wonderful_ knowing how people took their civic duty to heart and tried to help the police in a murder investigation. Not.

"We should be back in time for Alexx to be done with the post," Eric commented.

"Then let's go."

Horatio put down the cell phone, meeting a pair of inquisitive blue eyes.

"That was something work related, right?" Miranda asked after setting down her half-eaten slice of pizza. "Something you should be doing instead of talking to me?" The sentences were phrased as questions, but sounded more like statements to his trained ears.

"I like to be with my team every step of our investigations," was Horatio's thought out reply. "I don't have to be."

"It's just, if you have to go, I would completely understand and I could just sit here while you went and did stuff. I swear I'm not going anywhere and my mom left me alone when she was at work all the time," she said.

"So it was just the two of you?" He somehow managed to keep most of the curiosity out of his voice.

"Yeah. Just the two of us, and most of it apart because more was working. I'm not quite a latch-key kid. More like a babysitter's club kid," she said, leaning back on to the couch. "I went to nursery school and the company day-care, then went through the string of my friends' older siblings getting paid to watch us, and then went though being signed up for every after school activity imaginable."

She started counting off using the fingers on her left hand, her ring index finger hitting them one by one with each word. "Swimming. Soccer. Karate." She laughed. "To top it off, my American History teacher wants me to be on the debate team."

"But when those things fell through, I would end up hanging out at my mom's office or doing my homework in the break room until she got off work," Miranda continued after taking a sip of her Sprite can. "I was no big deal. I mean, it wasn't like there was another choice. My dad—" She froze in mid-sentence. She sat the can down on the coffee table and just stared at it.

Children he had a way with, a talent to get them through the aftermath of the most horrible day of their young lives. Teenagers, however…he was out of his depth. He could only assume the mood swing had come because of his inquiry.

"Miranda?"

She jumped as if touched with a cattle prod. "I—I—I was going to say my dad died before I was born." Her eyes suddenly jumped to his. "But that could be a lie, right? Part of the stupid cover story the government came up?"

The hurt was so raw he couldn't help but answer her. "It's a possibility." He had the squelch the urge to tell her it was a possibility that her father, her _real_ father, was in Miami. He had no evidence to support his statement, just his instincts.

She fell back into the seat, deflated.

"Miranda, I promise you, we'll find the truth," H tried to comfort her. The teenager nodded but she wasn't looking at him.

"It suddenly makes sense," she said to herself. "The reason there aren't that many pictures of him and none of their wedding day. The reason she never really talked about him, didn't call him by name. David Sauer isn't real."

Miranda stared at her plate and the half-eaten slice, and then glanced around the room. "I'm not that hungry anymore."

"That's okay," he said, getting up from his desk to take her plate and can and putting them on top of his using a napkin. "I'll just go throw these away in the trashcan in the hall and when I get back, we'll work on finding you a place to stay."

"Stay?" the girl asked in confusion.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to hide you when I contact the FBI," Horatio gently explained. "If they know you're here, they're going to take you back into their custody before I can do anything."

"Oh."

He managed to open the door to his office with his back to it, using his foot to open it wider. "I'll be right back."

Horatio threw most of it the crime lab trash. All but her can. That he slowly walked down to the DNA lab.

DNA analyst Maxine Valera was at her station looking over a set of test results when he came in. He'd hired her a little over a year ago after their last DNA analyst, Laura, left for another lab and Ms. Delgado asked to cut back her hours. Valera had quickly become known for her quirky hair color and endearing near-spunky attitude. No one, him included, could now imagine anyone else being the dayshift's analyst. Although, in his case, it could be she was one of the few people that still jumped when he snuck in on them.

He gave her a minute to look up, and when she didn't, he gently spoke her name.

She jumped a little and then, realizing who it was, sighed as she smiled. "Sorry, Lieutenant. I didn't see you there. I was actually just going to page you. The results from the murder weapon from your doctor's office just came in."

"And?" He was all business now.

"Three DNA samples on the blade. Most of it is the victim's. Two unidentifiable samples: one male, one female." She handed him the paper. "Now I just need a suspect to run a comparison to."

"Good job, Valera," he said approvingly. "Although, that's not the reason I'm here." Valera straightened.

"What can I help you with, then, Lieutenant?" He gave her the can.

"I need you to take the DNA from the soda can and run it."

"Do I have anything to compare it to or should I just print the results like last time?" she asked. He smiled.

"Actually, I had a question for you."

She smiled in surprise. "Name it."

"How far does CODIS reach back when it comes to incarcerated offenders?"

"Well, I think Delgado was telling me the other day she just finished putting in the samples from 1987," Valera replied. "But that would only be for the state of Florida. Some states are really far behind."

"Of course. Could you check and see if a particular offender is in the database?"

"Sure." She went over to her computer and pulled up a data entry window. "I can identify the person by name, social, or case number."

"Try the name Rafael Castenada." She typed it in.

"Oh, he's in here alright. It even tells me he finished his sentence with the Feds and is back in a Florida maximum security prison in Tampa Bay."

"Good. Run a comparison between the sample on record and the can please." She nodded.

"I'll find you when I get the results."

"Good." He walked to the door. "And Valera?"

"No one else is to find out," she said with a shake of her head and a smile. He cocked his head in surprise. "You had that look," she explained and went back to work.

He left wondering what she meant.

Speed and Eric drove up to the Bal Harbor address in their issued Hummer, Yelina trailing them. The condo was pretty much what Speed had expected: three-story, mostly glass structure with palmetto plants placed in picturesque spots, a beach a hundred yards off the road. It wasn't in the most expensive neighborhood, but the price on the place was more than any of the civil servants could make in a year.

Speed also had expected the doctor to be really hung over or making a break for it. As it turned out, he was both. Yelina knocked on the door to Keaner's condo.

"Doctor Keaner, this is Detective Salas with the Miami Police with CSIs Speedle and Delko. We would like a minute of your time, please."

"Ah…give me a minute," the man yelled in response. The declaration was followed by obvious shuffling noises.

Eric's hand went to his hip and his gun. "He's making a break for it."

Speed just rolled his eyes. "How? He lives on the second floor of a damn condo with two other people. It's not like he's got a back door."

"Fire escape?" Eric suggested.

"If he is, he may be a doctor, but that doesn't make him any less or an idiot."

Yelina knocked and called again. They got no answer.

"I'll run and see if he's making a break for it while you guys go in," Eric suggested. Yelina nodded, drawing her gun.

"Salas to Dispatch. Entering suspects abode. Standby for backup." Eric took down the stairs they had just come up while Yelina nodded to Speed to take the door.

"One of the perks of the job," Speed commented sarcastically. He put down his kit. "Dr. Keaner, if you do not come to this door now, you are giving us probable cause to enter." No reply.

The double doors swung open with a bang as one hit the side wall, Yelina leading the way in with her gun drawn. The living room looked like someone had partied too hard the night before. Bottles and glasses were stacked on every surface possible, even on top of the lampshades. The smell, on top of the interesting looking stains, suggested vodka and tequila, and vomited vodka and tequila. To top it off, there was a white powdery substance pushed into the glass coffee table.

"Looks like cocaine," Yelina said. They cleared room by room, moving slowly to the back of the building. Sure enough, the balcony door was open. It led to a terrace.

"Okay. The guy is a moron," Speed said.

A second later. "Hey guys!" Eric voice rang. Yelina and Speed almost simultaneously raised eyebrows at each other.

"Ladies first," Speed said with a sweeping wave of his arm.

Stepping out on the terrace, they looked down to Eric. He had a man cuffed and kneeling on the ground. The man's coffee-colored hair was sticking up and Speed could tell his polo shirt was wrinkled. A suitcase with clothes spilling out wasn't located far from them.

"I think I got our suspect," Eric called. Yelina smiled.

"What the hell Delko? Trying to go for employee of the month?"

"Just get your scrawny ass down here and help me bring him in," the Cuban replied to Speed's growl, rolling his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

So…thanks first go to CaineSpeedle for being an amazing reviewer

So…thanks first go to CaineSpeedle for being an amazing reviewer! It's impressive how one person's comments can keep a story going.

Second, I put space breaks in chapters 2-4 that for some reason…don't show up, so it runs together when third person POV switches. Sorry about that. Just noticed it. I'm trying something different for the later chapters and we'll see how that works.

Right now, we're slowly progressing with the story, but trust me. There will be smut.

* * *

_**FLASHBACK**_

**August 1988 **

**Miami, Florida**

It was a day more humid than hot thanks to the shifting sea currents. A hurricane was hovering between Louisiana and the Florida Panhandle and the whole state had been issues an advisory warning. It would be another week before Beryl hit them, if it hit. That was the thing CSI Level 1 Horatio Caine was learning about living in Miami: it was unpredictable.

Take his latest case. It had started in the marina, but the gunshot on the victim confirmed that the man didn't drown. His death wasn't the result of a simple drug deal gone south, either. The man was wearing high end dress shoes and a tailored suit. A quick stop at the tailor's shop had provided the ID that was missing on the body, which led to their next stop of informing the wife.

Mrs. Herrera had first insisted that it her husband couldn't be dead, but when they showed her his wedding ban, she was overwhelmed with grief. The only lead they got from her was that she and her husband had attended a party at the Castenada house last night. She had left with her sister and brother-in-law while her husband conducted some business. Then she had broken into Spanish, a language still strange to him, and were ushered out of the house by the butler.

So now he and his boss, Lieutenant Russell Waverly were standing outside the gates of the Castenada residence.

"We have to play this one by the books," Waverly said, blowing out the smoke from the cigarette he was smoking. Horatio waited. This boss' definition of the 'books' fluctuated from situation to situation: a police situation or a war situation. Because according to everyone in the department, they were still in the middle of a drug war, and war was something his boss was all too familiar with, being a Vietnam veteran.

War's not the same as keeping the peace, his boss had told him a little less than a year ago when a drug bust had turned into a homicide of a police officer. Sometimes, his boss had once said to him, sometimes the war on drugs has to be handled like a real war.

"Four years ago, I was standing at this same house," Waverly explained. "We arrested Arturo Castenada for drug trafficking, extortion and murder. It was an arrest four years in the making and we still didn't get him for everything he did. No matter how well we processed the evidence, too much of it wasn't admitted in trial due to a technicality."

Waverly threw down his cigarette butt in anger, stomping on it with his boot. "Arturo was an Argentinean nobody who just happened to have the right connections to rise to being a drug king. His kid on the other hand, is something completely different. American born, college educated. His mother is a Cuban refugee, so he's got ties to Little Havana that his father could never make.

"The Narcotics taskforce has it on good authority that Rafael took over his father's business just as quickly as he moved into this house. Even supplementing the Colombian cocaine business with little exchanges with Cuban suppliers. It's proving it that's been a pain in the ass to do. Because he's smart. He's been building condominiums near the beachfront, been givin' the Cuban community an economic boom. Theory is, he's using them to scope out the Coast Guard and monitor the drug flow."

"But we can't prove that," Horatio said. He knew some of his colleagues had lived in the former 'Murder Capital of the USA' for too long that they assumed anyone who was a high roller, particularly if they were Hispanic, of using illegal means.

"Can't find out where he's storing it before distribution," Waverly replied. "Hell, can't figure out through which of his 'imports' he's hiding it in. We haven't managed to get enough on him to get a look at his books, and you know none of his employees are talking."

"So what are we thinking?"

"Herrara is one of his known associates. If he killed Herrara, had someone else kill him, or Herrara was otherwise murdered on his property, we're only going to get one shot at this. That's if we get in the door the first time. The Castenadas haven't been friendly with the police since Arturo's conviction. But if we do get in, we have to find something that will get us a warrant, because that's the only other way we'll be gettin' in there again. Got it?"

"Loud and clear, Sir," Horatio replied, choosing to keep his own opinion on the matter to himself. Lieutenant Waverly had gotten the position as the head of Miami's first crime lab because of his fifteen years experience on the job. He was lucky that Waverly had hired the former New Yorker and taken him under his wing. Horatio knew he had gotten the job as a CSI more because of his experience undercover with narcotics than his chemistry degree. Despite his continued unfamiliarity with Miami, he wanted to stay with the MDPD. Miami didn't have the horrible memories that New York had.

They walked up to the intercom and his boss introduced themselves and asked to come in and speak to the master or lady or the house. There was that heavy pause, the kind that made Horatio hold his breath. Either this would work, or it wouldn't.

There was the tell-tale buzz and the gates ever so slowly swung open. Once it was open enough for them to pass through, they did, making their way to the front door.

They reached the asphalt, passing a large fountain with a sculpture of Jose Martin. Most of the greenery Horatio could see were the palmetto bushes and small gardens of plants that were probably Caribbean in origin. The landscapers were diligently working away, paying them no mind.

The mansion was a mixture of Neo-Classical and Castilian design with a large, plantation style porch made of white marble, the iconic columns extending close to forty feet high. Horatio couldn't help but whistle. He'd seen a lot of mansions in his year and a half tenure with the MDPD, even had seen the inside of the mighty Hamilton home, and that just didn't compare to the place before him.

"Arturo Castenada rebuilt the house he had in Argentina when the Revoluciόn Libertadora drove him out in 1955," Waverly said. "Makes you wonder why the poor drove him out of his country, doesn't it?"

As they just made it up the stairs, one of the double doors opened. A man in a dress suit held it open for them.

"Officers," he greeted them, his accent—Cuban, possibly Dominican—thick. "If you'll follow me."

Upon entering, he led them past the foyer and the large, winding staircase, and several rooms down the long hall. Painting from several eras, most of them Spanish or Latin in origin, hung on the walls. Most Horatio recognized as depicting the battle for independence from Spain in one country or another. Occasionally there was a potted plant in an ornate vase. They passed several rooms, all seeming to have their own motif. The only commonality of the house appeared to be that there was maid or worker cleaning or rearranging the furniture.

Eventually the hall opened to a living-room like area. Slightly bigger than Horatio's one bedroom apartment, it was decorated with a Renaissance theme.

"If you would wait here," the butler said, gesturing at the ornate, wrap-around couch, "Senora Castenada be with you soon."

After he was out of earshot, Waverly grumbled sarcastically, "Great. The woman that nearly turned the Cuban community against the police. I'm sure this will be a pleasant exchange."

Neither man sat down. Horatio found himself looking the paintings at first, but then his eyes settled on the bookshelves on the other side of the room.

"Well, this is new," Waverly commented off hand. Horatio walked to the shelf, curious.

"You said Arturo Castenada rebuilt the house exactly as he had in Argentina?" Horatio asked, as his finger traced the spine of one book in particular.

"Yeah, but the last time I was here, the room had a '40s theme," he answered, "a tribute to the Golden Years and the Perons. Not this…"

"Renaissance," Horatio supplemented. "Both Italian and British. The paintings are original fifteenth century pieces done in the style Florence painters adopted. The chairs, however, are very Elizabethan, and the books are notable classics from both periods."

Waverly looked at Horatio as if had proclaimed to be Pablo Escobar.

"My mother insisted my brother and I have a gentleman's education," he explained, embarrassed.

"So, by classics, you mean, what?" his Lieutenant asked, choosing to ignore his predicament, Horatio was relieved to note. "_A Tale of Two Cities_?"

"Machiavelli, Shakespeare," Horatio answered. "There are several others in multiple languages."

"As I said, college educated," Waverly shrugged. Horatio was still examining the bookcase when they heard footsteps approaching them.

"Detectives, I'm sorry to keep you waiting," a young woman said just as Horatio looked up. He forced himself to blink, to check and see if what he was viewing was reality or his imagination somehow ran amuck.

Her stature was petite, but she stood tall and proud and in his mind's eye, her presence made the room smaller. Long, auburn red hair was held by a large band so it fell around her shoulders, framing a fair, oval face. Beneath long, light lashes, a pair of deep, chartreuse green eyes met his and seemed to stoically take him in, memorizing him from head to toe.

Everything about her was a contrast to the luxury he had just seen. She wore a simple, pale blue, cotton T-shirt and a navy skirt. The only jewelry she wore was a small medallion around her neck and a gold wedding ring with diamonds and a few sapphires set within the band. Even her shoes were standard black flats. She looked more like a secretary than anything else.

"No trouble, Mrs. Castenada," Waverly answered, clearly not expecting _her_.

"Please, call me Ms. Castenada," she said. "It's the only way to stop the confusion between myself and my mother-in-law, although our employees are not quite in the habit yet of making that distinction."

Her accent was familiar to Horatio. She had definitely spent several years in New York, but there was another element to it, underlying it.

"Well Ms. Castenada, I'm Lieutenant Russell Waverly and this is one of my crime scene investigators, Horatio Caine."

"Crime scene investigator?" Ms. Castenada asked, confused. "Has something happened to Rafael?"

"No, no," Waverly answered, "We're actually just here to ask him a couple of questions about an associate of his. We were hoping to catch him here, since he doesn't appear to be in the office."

"That's no surprise," she commented. "When Rafael starts a large project, he has trouble delegating authority. Knowing all the sites under construction and committee commitments he has, he could be anywhere from Palm Beach to South Beach." She took a seat on the couch.

"Maybe you could answer our questions then, Ms. Castenada?" Horatio asked.

"I'd be happy to try," she answered, "but I'm not fully aware of all our associates and their involvement. I'm afraid the Castenada family has too many friends to keep track of all of them."

She smiled. "Please, sit. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee maybe?"

"Coffee would be good," Horatio said as he chose one of the chairs near the couch. Waverly nodded, planting himself on the other side of Ms. Castenada.

"Rosario, tres cafés, por favor," she said to the woman standing by the door. The woman curtly nodded and then went away. They waited until her steps were off in the distance before talking again.

"Well, I noticed all your staff appears to be very busy," Horatio stated.

"We had a fund raising dinner party last night," Ms. Castenada replied. "I would say close to two hundred, three hundred people were here. The Goodwins, the Hannighans, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, as well as some of the prominent members in the Latin community: Farruco and Lorenza Decarlos, Pavel and Clorinda Delektorsky, Eduardo and Maranela Herrara. You have to do a lot to get these people to drop money, even for something like we're doing, building a youth center. It means a lot of work goes into it, and a lot of work goes into cleaning up."

"So Eduardo Herrara was here last night?" Waverly asked.

"Of course. He's an old friend of Arturo and Abiliana," she explained. "I can't remember a function that Eduardo and Maranela haven't attended in the four years I've been married to Rafael."

"Do you by chance remember when they left the party last night?" Waverly inquired.

Ms. Castenada closed her eyes for a moment. "It was a very long party. Dinner wasn't officially over until midnight. Most of the guests didn't leave, however, until…after 2 in the morning."

"And the Herraras?" Horatio questioned softly. She looked him directly in eyes, and he couldn't help but feel a sliver of desire race through him. He watched her go through her memories as she simultaneously seemed to be gauging his intentions. For a second, it felt like they were the only two people in the room.

"Maranela Herrara and her sister Barbara left with Barbara's husband Alberto Iglesias around 2:20..maybe 2:30," she finally answered. Waverly flipped out his note pad and jotted the statement down. Horatio did the same, after a minute. "I'm sure of that because I saw them out myself. It was one of my jobs as hostess for the evening."

"But not Mr. Herrara?" Waverly coaxed.

It was at that moment that Rosario returned, carrying a tray with three cups of coffee and a sugar bowl. She sat the tray on the coffee table. Ms. Castenada thanked her. She took a sip before answering the question.

"No, Eduardo and Rafael and, I guess, half-a-dozen or so of our friends stayed behind to conduct some business, now that I think about it."

"So you never saw him leave?" Waverly clarified.

"No, I personally didn't see him leave," she answered matter-of-factly. "After all but a few of Rafael's friends were left, I got ready to go to bed. It was close to 3 o'clock in the morning, Lieutenant. But I'm sure Rafael personally saw all his friends out." She paused to put down her cup. "Now, can you please tell me what this is all about? Has something happened to Eduardo Herrara?"

Waverly looked to Horatio. He was unfamiliar with giving death notifications, so was made to do so with some frequency. He really didn't want to think about the notification earlier today, only that this one had to go so much better.

"Eduardo Herrara was found murdered at the marina this morning," Horatio stated.

He didn't receive the usual 'it's not possible' or 'I can't believe it' expressions of shock, nor an explosion of grief. Instead, he watched the emotions filter across her eyes—surprise, sadness, acceptance—in a matter of seconds. The reaction of someone who had gone down the road of grief too many times.

"Murdered?" She barely got the question out before drinking more of her coffee.

"Shot," Waverly elaborated. Horatio didn't let giving away details this early in an investigation, but he wasn't the lead on the case.

It got a reaction out of her, though, as she almost spilled her cup sitting it down.

"Ms. Castenada, according to the information you've given us, we've got only a four hour gap between when Eduardo Herrara was last seen alive and when he was found dead," Waverly explained. "Now, there is a great chance we can catch this guy if we can complete our timeline."

"What do you need of me?" she asked, like she had expected the question all along and had gone through the pleasantries because they had expected her to.

"We would like to find evidence, to complete our timeline," Horatio answered honestly. "With your permission, we would like to look around your property." She almost believed him. Then her eyes slanted when she looked at Waverly. Something in detective's manner had her shoulders hunching up.

"You think he was murdered here." She didn't bother to hide her anger at the accusation.

"Ms. Castenada—"

"I know about my father-in-law, Lieutenant. I know what you put him in prison for. I know that while Abiliana and Rafael are in denial about his misdeeds, I'm not." There was a fiery edge of to her words that bordered on brimstone. "But I know my husband and the last thing he would be involved with would be the murder of one of his oldest friends."

Horatio's reply was calm and collected. "Ms. Castenada, you said it yourself: you had several influential members at your gathering last night. What if someone was out, stalking for a victim? They not caring who it was, as long as if it was someone with money. The evidence could be on your property."

"You believe that?" She was staring directly at him, challenging him to answer.

It was Waverly who retorted, however. "How much security would you say was at the party last night?"

Ms. Castenada contemplated the question, her eyes still fixed on Horatio, until she decided her answer. Finally, she turned to Waverly, her chin held high.

She was stern. "You can look around the property, but it is not a carte blanch invitation, Lieutenant Waverly. I am going with you and what I say is off limits is off limits."

"Of course." Waverly's smile wasn't genuine, and all three of them knew it. "I wouldn't dare argue with the lady of the house."

* * *

_**End FLASHBACK**_

Horatio shook his head, rattling his consciousness back to this time. He looked at his watch and was a little startled by the time. He couldn't believe he'd been, essentially, taking a road trip down memory lane for a good ten minutes. He had just been watching Miranda through the small, square windows outside his office door, her presence in his life just as startling and not under the best circumstance as Monica's, comparing the two situations when he'd somehow made the transition to flat-out daydreaming.

It was hard to believe that fifteen years had passed since he had been that twenty-eight year old green CSI. It was harder to think that he hadn't thought about the Castenada case in a while…well, since he and Speed had started dating.

Speed. While Horatio hadn't said it in so many words, the scruffy trace expert was the love of his life. He had only come close to feeling the intensity of emotions he held for Tim for one other person—Monica. After coming out of his failed marriage, his parents' death especially the one by his own hand still clear in his mind, she had been a beacon of hope.

Of course, it wasn't a relationship that had happened under the best circumstances: Monica was still married and a witness for the prosecution. He was the arresting officer. But a spark had been set the day they met. Their broken pasts had been the kindling to a tentative trust and it only continued to build to a slow, fearless burn. Leading by example, she had taught him to accept parts of himself that he'd been in denial about. That it was his past that made him a better man.

Ironically, if it hadn't been for Monica, he may have never admitted that he was bisexual. His relationship with Speed, despite the obvious chemistry, would not have happened. That was something he couldn't imagine now—a life without Speed in it.

Speed. How was he going to explain today's events to his lover? They both were people who didn't trust easily and whose pasts had plenty of painful points in them. In the year they had been dating, they had only touched upon the major events in each others' past.

He knew about Speed's parents. His dad was a chef who had worked his way up to owning several five-star restaurants across New York State. Working in the back of the restaurant was where Tim got his cooking skills and first discovered his love of chemistry. His mother was an attorney in family law, a passion for which sometimes meant her own family came second, third or fourth in her concerns. The drive to help those after the worst had happened to them had also been passed to her older son.

Tim didn't talk much about his childhood, however, seeing as he had spent most of it on his own or under the care of his aging grandmother. He didn't talk about his high school years much, either, just that was how he met Andrew, his first love. And he didn't really talk about the years he had spent at Columbia, just about where he had traveled during the eight months he spent grieving over Andrew.

Horatio couldn't complain. He only talked about his childhood when he had to—because of the scars on his skin. Because of the fact that even though he enjoyed a good bottle of wine and a good beer, he didn't drink a lot. Horatio knew that several factors played into alcoholism, but genetic predisposition was one of them. He didn't want to even come close to becoming the man his father was.

In short, they only talked about the past when it had become necessary. Of course, this was exactly a case when talking about his past was necessary, but for some reason, that thought didn't ease the tension in his spine. Skimping over the details of his far from perfect childhood was one thing; an ex-lover and a potential child were completely different.

But that revelation was hours away. They were still at work, with cases to solve. He had a feeling that he was going to have to call the FBI, and that was going to be a less than pleasant conversation. He knew that they were the only ones who were going to have a clue as to what really happened and were going to be less than forthcoming with the information.

He was going to have to hide Miranda before that. His home would be a dead give away. Yelina's not an option either, for several reasons that don't include Stetler's presence. It's a situation he'll have to consider as he finds out what the Phoenix police had as evidence.

He dialed the Phoenix police department and asked to speak to Detective Rouvin. In short time frame he had talked to Phoenix dispatch, he had learned the detective's first name was Soledad and she was a level one detective with Homicide. Within a few moments, there was ringing of his call going through.

"Rouvin," the female detective answered, sounding it out Ru-veen. Besides the typical southwestern accent, she had a hint of Mexican dialect in her speech.

"Detective Rouvin, this is Lieutenant Horatio Caine from the Miami-Dade Crime Lab."

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant? Miami is quite a long ways from Mariposa County," she said good naturedly.

"Yes, normally, it is. But it's my understanding, that you were handling the Martina Sauer murder investigation."

There was a long pause on the other end. "How on Earth…?"

"I knew Martina Sauer before that was her name."

"Then this makes this a personal call," Rouvin concluded. It was a leap in thought, but a correct leap, and Horatio couldn't help but wonder how long she had been on the force.

"I know the Feds swept in. I just need to know if there's any evidence they didn't take with them."

"The Feds are thorough about sometimes and not about others, as I guess you would already know about," Rouvin replied, her voice just above a whisper. "All we've got are the crime scene photos."

He mentally sighed. So much for the easy way. "Is there anyway I could get you to send those to my lab?"

There was another pause and then some shuffling of paper. "I can't get the photos themselves to your lab, but if you give me an e-mail address or somethin', I can get or AV tech to scan them in and e-mail them to you, although it's going to cost me tickets to the next Suns game."

Horatio chuckled lightly before giving her Speed's e-mail address and his personal e-mail, for backup.

"I'll try to get them to you by the end of the day," Rouvin said. "Considering my day just started, should be easy to do."

"I don't know how I can thank you," he said honestly. "You're taking a risk."

"Then don't," was the detective's quick reply. "Hell, I know it could cost me my job, but the way the damn Feds just came in pissed me off. So much for interdepartmental cooperation!" There was scorn to her words. "She worked in our District Attorney's office, even if she was their witness a long time ago. But the kicker was them taking and endangering her daughter. Which, by God, if that girl ends up dead I swear to God I'll make those self-righteous bastards pay!"

"That, I can assure you, is not going to happen," he quickly replied, his steely gaze settling once again on Miranda. "She's safe and she's going to stay that way."

"Thank God." The sigh of relief was loud. "See, Lieutenant, you've made my day. That's payment enough."

"Well, if something does come up, and you need my assistance…" he had to reiterate.

"I'll let you know," Rouvin answered. "And I'll tell Dan Cooper, our AV tech, that too, since he's going to be panicking about his job."

They hung up. At some point soon, they'll learn whether a picture is really worth a thousand words.


	6. Chapter 6

Okay. Sorry for the major delay, but as they say, Life happens. I've already got chapter seven in the works and eight should follow soon after…

* * *

Calleigh Duquense had just dropped off her evidence to the lab techs, mainly fingerprint, shoe print and videotape surveillance, when she heard the news from Valera about the DNA results. Valera also hinted to the Southern blonde that she shouldn't listen to the latest rumor going around the lab, which, of course, peaked her curiosity. That and everyone dropping to hushed tones when she walked by.

She knew whatever the rumor was, it wasn't about her: then the officers and the lab techs would have stopped talking all together. Still, she found herself wandering down to the morgue for more than one reason at 1 o'clock in the afternoon, the least important of which to escape the afternoon heat.

Maybe she was being a little paranoid to think that, somehow, the lab staff could know about her and Eric. After all, things had just reached the level they did last night. But one couldn't be too careful at the Miami-Dade Crime Lab. When the lab techs weren't busy processing evidence, they were busy investigating each others' lives.

For the longest time, she thought of Eric as brother. He acted like her younger brother Cameron, with the constant teasing and the playboy attitude. Then there was that fire at Club Descent. Speed and Eric had gotten caught in it. They both could have died if they had panicked. Quick-thinking and training had saved them and other patrons, but there were still fatalities.

Sixteen, to be exact. One of them was the woman Eric had been flirting with: Constance. Since that night, things had changed. Part of that change had to do with Speed. She learned from Tim that he and Horatio had finally cleared the air about their feelings and had started dating after finishing that case. So Eric had lost his trusty wingman in picking up women. Of course, if Eric had paid attention, he would have noticed that Speed never went home with anyone.

Eric didn't go clubbing as much. Still didn't change effect how he found a different girl every week. That had come later. After John Hagen and she had broken up over the case with her father, and Treasury Agent Peter Elliot found other things to do besides have coffee with her, Calleigh once again found herself quite alone.

At the same time, Eric had felt very much alone too. His latest girlfriend had dumped him and the odd thing about it had been that he thought they had a shot at the real deal. He'd gotten dinner reservations at Sardonyx, one of the best European gourmet restaurants in Miami, and the one of the hardest restaurants to get into.

Calleigh had talked him into keeping the reservations. But he had only agreed to if she went with him, seeing as no one else was available. Of course, that wasn't what Eric said. He said there was no way he was going to show up at Sardonyx without the most beautiful and charming woman he knew. A symbolic stab at an ex who, for no seeable reason, rejected him.

It was an offer she couldn't refuse. For the food alone, it was not an opportunity to pass by. The only thing that compared to it was Speed's own cooking and, sampling Speed's cooking was rare. Plus, while his meals were free in the sense they didn't cost money, they always came with a price. Most of the time Tim exchanged meals for dumpster driving or toilet bowl investigating, tasks Calleigh didn't find pleasant herself but was willing to contend with to get a reward. He usually invited her over after a hard case they both had been assigned, but even those occasions had cut down because of he and Horatio dating, meaning the rewards were fewer and farther in between.

In any case, she hadn't turned down the offer. Eric had picked her up at six thirty sharp wearing a suit. She had chosen a satin, midnight blue dress with dark blue sequins embroidered diagonally across the bottom half. She hadn't gone digging into the back of her closet to get a reaction, but to be appropriately dressed for the meal. Yet the way Eric's eyes settled on her and left him speechless when she answered the door—she got a reaction from anyway. She was then struck with the familiar pleasure of accomplishment, of holding the power of attraction over someone, and she had no clue as to why.

Dinner went off without a hitch. They talked about things they never got to talk about a work and found while they had different interests, they had plenty in common too. They both came from big families, Eric having three sisters and Calleigh having three brothers. They liked the same movies, action adventure types, but hated it when the writers got the details wrong. Calleigh hadn't known Eric had almost been part of the Olympic swim team, and he hadn't known she been a competitive equestrian rider before she became a competitive marksman.

One dinner together became one dinner a week, which turned into dinner and a movie on the weekends, which led up to grocery shopping trips and meeting up on their days off to go to the beach. Before Calleigh realized it, she and Eric were spending as much time together outside of the lab as in.

She hadn't known what to do. The chemistry was there. It was building with every case they worked, with every time their hands touched, with every inside joke they formed. She felt like her heart was having palpitations whenever she suddenly noticed how close they were together, physically and emotionally. It wasn't something she wanted to loose, but believed it couldn't be pursued. She and Eric were colleagues and, while office romances weren't explicitly denied, they often didn't end well. Hagen had taught her that.

Finally, one evening Calleigh and Eric were loading the dishwasher at her house after eating dinner. They could have easily gone to Eric's apartment. However, his place was a bachelor pad and hers was an actual house. Although she didn't use them often, she actually had all the supplies to cook meals; Eric just had what his mother gave him.

They were discussing their day. The way the clips had fallen, she and Speed had taken one case and Horatio and Eric the other. H and Eric had a robbery-homicide at a tienda in Little Havana and Speed and Calleigh had tackled a body dump in the 'Glades. She was in the mist of closing the machine when Eric's hand landed on hers, slowly encasing her fingers.

_Calleigh looked up, catching those warm brown eyes. Her heart sped up; she chose to ignore it._

"_Did I forget somethin'?" she asked, a bit bewildered._

"_Calleigh." Eric's voice was soft and low. "What are we doing?" She wanted to pretend she didn't have a clue what he was referring to, but she couldn't. It seemed to her they had been on the edge of this conservation for weeks and there was no easy means of dealing with it._

"_I don't know," she replied as lightly and quietly._

"_It's like for the last several months we've been dating—"_

"_Without the rush to the next level," she finished. She was acutely aware of Eric's thumb circling her pulse point on her wrist. In fact, she could feel it to the tips of her toes. The feather-light strokes were sending twinges of desire through her body. Calleigh knew she should pull her hand back but wouldn't. The action was as much comforting as arousing. _

"_Calleigh." Eric swallowed hard. "I've never felt this way about anyone. Never." _

_She wanted to say the same thing, but it wouldn't be the whole truth. They had told each other about their pasts and past flames in recent months, yet Calleigh still hadn't found the courage or the willpower to admit that she had been married once, however brief._

"_We can't do this," she spoke instead._

"_Why? It's not against the work rules. If we feel the same way—"She could tell from the look in his eye that he had an impressive argument laid out. It was the same look he got when he started laying down the evidence against a suspect._

_Calleigh cut to the chase. "Right now, everything is going amazing. But what happens when it stops, Eric? What happens when we end up arguing more than we talk, when we break up for one reason or another? Worse case scenario: everyone in the lab will be brought in on it. They'll feel like they have to take a side on it. We'll get hurt. Our cases will get hurt. One of us will have to leave."_

_She finally pulled her hand away and used it to steady herself against the kitchen counter. She was expecting an angry retort._

"_Yeah, that could happen," Eric agreed. "But best case scenario: what if it doesn't stop? What if one day we wake up and can't live without each other? Sure, we'll have our rough patches. And things at the lab might every now and then get a little rocky. But we'll get through it. I know it. But either way, who's to say what will happen in less we try?" _

"_You're right, we don't," Calleigh agreed. "But doesn't it at least scare you, the prospect of this going way south?_

"_Yeah, a little," Eric truthfully answered. "Because loosing you scares me, Calleigh." And then, gradually, he began closing the space between them. She knew it was coming and didn't try to fight it. She wanted it as much as he did. _

_Their lips met and a jolt of electricity ran through Calleigh. One of his hands went to cradle her chin as the other slid to her waist._

_He was being so gentle, his lips so soft that she couldn't help but moan. That one noise seemed to be the spark that lit the passion between them. _

_Eric suddenly demanded entrance and she gave it, but not before pulling him even closer, her arms going around his neck._

_Their tongues dueled. Not for dominance, only to taste more and more of each other. The heat kept building. And building. Until Calleigh couldn't stand on her own anymore… _

That kiss was of the heart melting, knees trembling, will breaking kind. She learned a valuable lesson that night: her mind had closed to the possibility of her and Eric, her body and heart were different matters.

They continued "really" dating for the past month. Technically, she knew she and Eric were going to have to disclose their relationship status to their colleagues. Calleigh didn't think Horatio and Speed would mind, considering their own secret, and Alexx would only want to assure they were treating each other right. Still, they hadn't told the team yet.

Calleigh had kept telling herself she would at the right moment, but in reality she had been holding out for the moment her and Eric's relationship moved pass the initial phases. After all, her and Hagen's relationship hadn't gotten that far. Who was to say she wasn't repeating the same mistake?

Thing was, there relationship had gone to the next level. Last night.

_They just reached her home, Calleigh in her yellow Jeep Cherokee and Eric in the MDPD Hummer. After work, they went out to dinner and caught a later showing of "Eternal Sunshine on a Spotless Mind." It wasn't something either of them would have normally gone out of their way to see, but the premise of two people having their memories wiped after a bad breakup only to fall back in love was too intriguing to ignore._

_Calleigh got as far as her door before they started kissing._

"_Eric!" she said, trying to pull away._

"_What?!" He pulled back—just barely—in mock confusion. She just rolled. He was incorrigible. He knew how she felt about public displays of affection. He was just trying to wear her down._

"_A Southern woman is not to be caught making out for all the world to see," she drawled, gesturing to all the homes that surrounded them. It didn't matter to her that it was close to eleven o'clock at night and most of her neighbors, the ones that had kids at least, where probably asleep. Customs and values dictated such._

_She got the door opened a moment after her statement, Eric leaning in to her as he entered. _

"_I can't help it if I can't get enough of you," Eric whispered huskily in her ear._

_Calleigh went through her normal nightly routine of locking her door, dropping her eyes on the dresser by the door and putting her weapon away. In less than five minutes, she was back in the living room where she left Eric._

_Coming to her, "Now can I kiss you?" he asked, faking exacerbation._

"_Absolutely," she said sweetly, kissing him before he got a chance to say another word. "The living room is just fine," she said between kisses. "Or the kitchen. Or anywhere else inside." _

_Lazily, they made their way to her sofa, Eric encouraging her to lay back and relax. Calleigh took the hint and let Eric be in control—for now._

_Eric pushed his fingers into her hair as hers were slowly unfastening the buttons of his shirt. After the last button, Eric took a moment to lift the shirt off, leaving him only in a wife-beater and his jeans._

_When he settled back down, their hips slightly gyrating, and Calleigh became aware of exactly how much Eric wanted her right now. It gave her an idea._

_Her lips settled on his collarbone and worked their way down the cotton. She felt his muscles and nipples twining, reacting to the heat of her mouth._

_Meanwhile, her hand had made its way down and between their bodies, her nails beginning to lightly scrape the bulge in his jeans._

"_Cal-Leigh!" Eric threw his head back and she used that exact moment to push her hips against his and effectively flipping them over._

_Of course, her sofa was really that small and Eric landed on the carpet with Calleigh saddling him, her breasts hiked against his chest._

_Eric just looked at her. She didn't know if it was the mischievous smile on her face or the roll of her hips that gave her away, but he said, "You planned that."_

_She bit at his lips as his hands settled on her waist. "You forget I have a degree in physics," she answered with a giggle. "Now off," she said, pulling at the hem of his undershirt. _

_As he threw off his, she raised her hands to remover hers. Her teeth then went back to nipping at his skin, punctuating the harder bites with each inch of his jeans she opened. _

_Eric's hands had found their way to her bra strap, unclipping it. She let the garment slide down her arms and then tossed it into the growing pile of clothes._

_Their kisses than became endless, one fueling into another until they finally had to part to breathe, the exhales loud in the silent room. Already, a faint layer of sweat covered their bodies, the skin between them sizzling._

"_Are we really," Eric swallowed, "going to do this here?"_

_No. Absolutely not. As sappy as it was, Calleigh did not want to have their first time together be on the floor in front of her sofa._

"_Upstairs," Calleigh commanded. It took them less than a second to get up and for Calleigh to wrap her legs around Eric's waist. _

_They slowly took the stairs… _

Calleigh knew she had reached the point of no return. She knew they had to tell Speed and Horatio, and their boss, for once, couldn't be found.

Stepping through the swinging doors, Calleigh announced her arrival to Alexx, who was working on a different body than the one she had seen earlier.

"Am I comin' in at a bad time?"

"Not at all," Alexx said. "Already have the man in custody who he got into a car accident with. Just need to make sure sugar here's cause of death was the accident. Besides," Alexx commented with a grin, "about time one of you made your way down here."

"The boys are out interviewing a suspect. I just got back from a robbery scene," Calleigh said. "And I can't seem to find Horatio, so I know he's busy. But what do you got for us?"

"I finished my post on Olivia Delacroix," Alexx said, switching to a new set of gloves. She went to the coroner's vault and pulled out the body. Medium height and build; long, chocolate brown hair; naturally tan skin. In a city of models and A-list wives, the victim had turned a few heads in her twenty-six years.

"Cause of death?"

"The stabbing, naturally," Alexx replied. "But that's not what's so interesting." She lifted part of the sheet, exposing the sternum. "I noticed the wound was shallow and small. I first thought that was because of the size of the weapon."

"But it's not?" Calleigh examined the wound herself.

"The blade went in and upward," Alexx answered, "as if our girl was struggling with the killer, and it was turned on her as she was using it for self-defense. But whoever our killer is, they didn't have a lot of strength in their hands. The combined force of Olivia and the killer's strength didn't drive it deep. She bled out because the blade was removed instead of taking her to the hospital."

"So in your professional opinion, our killer could have been a woman?" Calleigh asked.

"Definitely," was the ME's answer. "Of course, from that look in your eye, I can tell you already had that question before you came down here." Calleigh smiled, flipping back her hair that had fallen over her shoulder when she examined the body. They had all learned keeping things from Alexx was next to impossible. If they managed it all, Alexx would eventually find out through sheer persistence. Because they were family, and as the saying went, family looks out for each other.

"Valera found two unidentified DNA samples. One was female," Calleigh explained. "Now, they all work in an office. Someone could have easily borrowed the letter opener and cut themselves, but it wouldn't explain the blood sample being mixed in Olivia's."

"So all you need is a suspect?"

"Well, this theory of the crime doesn't explain the male DNA found, but it should get us a warrant," Calleigh noted. Just then, her cell phone rang.

"Duquense. Hey Horatio. I'm with Alexx right now. I've got a potential lead on our suspect. Both the wound and the blood sample found on the letter opener suggest the attacker is female." At first, she didn't understand why Horatio was asking her what he was, but then decided everything that had happened in the last half and hour was a bit particular, even for Miami, and hung up.

"More good news, I hope?" Alexx asked.

"You'll have to tell me," Calleigh quipped. "He asked me to ask you to come and see him as soon as possible."

Alexx's look of surprise with a hint of dread was priceless.

Calleigh couldn't help but laugh. "It feels like you're being called into the principal's office when he does this."

"Honey, I know what you mean and I've never been called to the principal's office in my life." Alexx took care of Olivia Delacroix's body, slipping her back into her labeled drawer.

"Do you want me to escort you?" Calleigh teased.

"Don't worry, Sugar. I know how to get there by myself. You've got a warrant to get and suspects to round up."

Still, Calleigh waited, the two women walking out the coroner's doors together.

"Did he say what this call was about?" Alexx couldn't help but ask.

"Nope. But today everyone I've run into since I got back from my crime scene has been actin' stranger than usual," Calleigh commented. Then, pondering: "Maybe it has something to do with that rumor goin' around the lab."

"Which rumor?" Alexx joked as they got in the elevator.

"I don't know," Calleigh answered. "The lab techs have been going silent when I walk by. You heard anything?"

"No, although that's not too strange. I am located in the basement."

"Well, the worst thing they could have done is try to hide somethin' from a CSI," Calleigh quipped. "One way or another, I'm going to find out what's going on around here."

The elevator doors closed.

* * *

Medical Examiner Alexx Woods road the elevator up to the fourth floor, while Calleigh got off on the third. Alexx only came up to this level of the crime lab on the rare occasion she wanted to deliver evidence—whether it was trace under the victim's fingernails or a bullet that had been particularly difficult to remove—not for house calls.

However, she had a hunch this wasn't a normal house call. Over the ten years she had been employed at the MDPD, and the seven she had known Horatio Caine, he had never called her to his office. Nor had Megan Donner when she was the head of the crime lab from 1998 to 2002.

No. More than a hunch. She just hoped it didn't have anything to do with Timmy. Things were going well for her 'adopted' son and his boyfriend, and she wanted to keep it that way. The poor boy had been hurt too many times when he was younger and somehow got it through his skull that he didn't deserve to be happy. It had taken both her and Horatio until just recently to prove to him otherwise, and she did not want to have to backtrack so soon.

Despite there being two, square glass windows in the wall by his door, letting him get a glimpse a head of time who was arriving, she knocked on his door.

"Come in."

Lieutenant Caine was more of a man of action than words, more hands on with his team than any of the previous heads of the crime lab had been. That meant his office was more of a place where he stored paperwork than to administrate. The few times the ME had poked her head into his office, and Megan's before his, the most noticeable thing was the stacks of folders and forms. In fact, the only difference between the Lieutenant's office and Donner's was the arrangement of the furniture and how that effected where the stacks fell.

Fact of the matter was, the office of the head of crime lab, both dayshift and nightshift, was where furniture came to die. The dark green couch had come from one of the departmental psychologist offices. The tall, standing lamp in the corner had come from another. The blue waiting chairs were curtsey of one of the precincts. The black, leather chair by the window above the trace lab had been pulled from an interrogation room. The desk had belonged to one of the police sergeants before it made its way here. Even the black, plastic phone on the desk was a hand-me-down from the receptionist of the Chief of Police.

No, nothing had changed. Except there was a girl in it.

Fiery red hair pulled back in a clip. Pure, ice blue eyes took her in and measured her out. Her fair skin made the dark purple rings under eyes and a faint flush to her cheeks stand out. Years of experience as a mother had told her this girl hadn't gotten a lot of sleep and had been crying recently. A teenager, she thought, definitely older than her two children, anyway.

"Hello," Alexx said, surprised. She looked from H to the girl and back again. Oh yeah. The resemblance was…uncanny. No wonder the lab techs were in a chatty mood.

"Hi."

Horatio made the introductions. "Alexx, this is Miranda Sauer. She's the daughter of an old friend of mine. Miranda, this is Dr. Alexx Woods, our Medical Examiner and team care-giver." There's a slight grin on all their faces at that remark.

"What brings you to our lab, sweetie?" Alexx asked nicely.

Miranda barely turned her head in the lieutenant's direction before he answered. "Miranda is in need of a place to stay for a couple of days. I was hoping that you wouldn't mind taking her in."

Alexx raised an eyebrow. What was going on here?

Miranda seemed to catch the questions in the air. She nervously began tapping her foot. "Umm…I need to use the restroom."

"Go right down the hall and it's the third door on the left," Horatio calmly answered.

"Great!" The girl didn't quite bolt for the door; Alexx had just enough time to step out of her way, the two trading another set of smiles before she left the room.

The door had just closed when Alexx decided to take a seat. "Okay. Spill it. All the details."

Horatio didn't seem surprised by Alexx's reaction in the least bit. "Fifteen years ago, one of the biggest drug cartels on American soil was brought down. I was one of the leads on the case. Miranda's mother was a witness that provided key evidence for the prosecution, evidence she gave in return for protection. The last time I saw or heard from her was after her testimony. Until this morning."

"Three days ago, Miranda's mother was murdered. The two agents that took Miranda into custody were also killed. Miranda came to Miami because her mother told her to find me in the event something happened to her. As far as I know, neither the FBI nor the assailants know that Miranda is here, and I would like to keep it that way. To do that, I need to put Miranda in a safe place, out of sight and not somewhere the FBI is going to look."

"Which excludes you apartment," Alexx instantly realized. He looked her squarely in the eyes.

"Alexx, your home is the only place I can think of on short notice. Now, I don't want to do anything that would put your family in danger."

"But if no one knows where she is, there shouldn't be any danger," Alexx stated. She didn't really have to think about it. She could imagine being afraid for your child's life, desperate to find a sanctuary for them. However, she couldn't imagine turning a child like that away. If someone hurt her and Peter, God forbid, she hoped that Tim and Horatio and team would do everything possible to protect her kids. Knew that they would do it, too. There was pack better at circling the wagon when one of them was hurt or in danger, and she was part of the pack.

"It should only be for a couple of days, until I can make for permanent arrangements," he added.

"Of course." She smiled. "You know, I was just thinking I needed to take a lunch break. It's a perfect time to stop by the house, check on Peter and the kids. I'm sure they're back from the beach by now."

"By all accounts, don't let me stop you."

"But Horatio, answer my question before we go." He waited expectantly. "How well did you know Miranda's mother? Because to send a girl to Miami from wherever she came from meant you left quite an impression on the woman."

A faint blush colored the lieutenant's cheeks and she knew her instincts had been right on this one.

"Does Tim know?"

Horatio ran his fingers lightly through his hair. "Alexx, he's on a case and it hasn't come up until now."

"I see. Well, do us both a favor by running a DNA test, would you?" She stood.

Horatio leaned back in his chair. "You know as well as I do that gene for red hair is a recessive gene. Only two percent of a given sample population demonstrates the phenotype, but who carries it is almost incalculable."

Alexx's hands went to her hips. "I'm not talking about the hair, Horatio. I'm talking about those baby blue eyes. It was just a little too much like déjà vu."

He sighed. He knew better than to upset Alexx. "I've already got Valera on it."

"Good." She was instantly placated, her hands going back to her sides. "Oh, and Horatio? You might want to go stalking around the lab a bit. The rumor mill is a rollin' and I'm pretty sure it's about her showing up here."

"Oh really?" There was a glint to his eye. She got the feeling she had just ordered the tiger out of its cage and the lab techs weren't going to know what hit them the second she left the building.


	7. Chapter 7

"Why Dr. Keaner did you run?" Yelina asked in the interrogation room. Speed and Eric sat on either side of her. The afternoon sun was just barely reaching the glass wall that stood between them and the Miami-Dade Robbery-Homicide Squad, 1:30 in the afternoon.

"You identified yourselves as cops," Keaner replied, his bloodshot eyes closing as he went to pinch his nose.

Sitting across from the suspect, Speed finally got a good look at him. Dennis Keaner could have been cousins with Greg Kinear, if it weren't for the cocky attitude and the pallor of his skin. Some of their suspects looked like they slept in their clothes; Keaner just looked like he hadn't slept. But he supposed a failed marriage and a coke habit could keep the midnight oil burning.

Yelina had pulled up their suspect's file before getting them in the interrogation room. Keaner had previously been arrested for drug possession and disturbing the peace in Virginia. He'd paid his fine and done his stint in rehab. Months later, Claymore and he opened their practice, shortly taking on another doctor and another therapist. That was five years ago. Keaner's wife had filed for divorce over a year ago, and the calls from the neighbors had started not long after.

"You know, that doesn't really help your case," Speed replied wirily. "You probably don't know why we even stopped by, do you?"

So he was use to cops, yes, but it only heightened the professional arrogance, not curbed it. Speed knew the type—he'd been half-way to declaring Pre-Med at Columbia before Andrew died. In his experience, there were two kinds of Pre-Med students: the ones that freaked that they wouldn't make it in to medical school and the ones that had no shadow of a doubt about it. Keaner was definitely in the latter category.

He thought he had his life under control, despite the obvious fact it wasn't. The only reason he hadn't asked for a lawyer was probably because he thought he was above it. Keaner thought that all he was going to get was a slap on the wrist, nothing to be too concerned about. But there was plenty to be concerned about. Keaner hadn't been acting cool and collective when he was running. No, he wasn't running from a drug charge, but could he have been bolting from a murder one? That was the question of the hour.

"I'm sure you're going to tell me." Speed wanted to roll his eyes. They say doctors make the worst patients; they didn't generally make the best suspects either.

Catching the look, Eric grinned at him.

"How about you tell us why you didn't report to work this morning, and we'll get around to telling you why you're here," Yelina said.

Keaner laughed. "Last time I checked, you didn't get arrested for playing hooky from work."

"Well, we do arrest you when you play hooky because you committed murder and you're trying to get away before we find you," Speed answered.

Keaner's eyes shot open. "Murder?!"

"Yeah. An employee of your practice was murdered inside your office building last night," Eric said. "How well would you say you knew Olivia Delacroix?"

"I—I really didn't know her. She's Dr. Hicks', one of my colleagues, secretaries," Keaner answered.

Speed stared at him. "Try again. We know you had an affair with her."

"Okay, you're right. I did. But it ended two months ago," Keaner said, gesturing to surrender.

"According to a couple of your employees, you were still harassing Olivia," Yelina stated.

"I WAS NOT harassing her," he yelled. "I was checking up on her. I can't help it if those damn nurses are so nosey. It's not like they've got enough to gossip about, they have to make it up."

"Well, you couldn't have cared for her too much," Eric commented, "because she was murdered and you didn't even bother to call and see what was happening in the office this morning."

Keaner's eyes widened, his body pausing in mid breath. "Livvie's..dead?"

He wasn't Horatio, but he had gotten better at reading suspects. The guy either missed his call for acting or he was truly as clueless and struck as he sounded. Speed personally was banking on all the coke frying the guy's brain. Maybe he didn't remember killing her? It wouldn't be the first time that had happened to the CSIs.

"Yeah, she's dead," Speed said bluntly. "Murdered. Last night. At your office. You want to tell us where you were last night?"

"I..I had a party with some friends after work."

"When did this party begin and end?" Yelina asked, not surprised by the alibi.

"Ah..I think most people showed up around 8:30, 9 and everyone h-had left by 1or 2."

"And you were playing host the entire time?"

"Yes."

"What about before then?" Eric questioned.

"Getting ready for it, I guess. Why?" Seconds passed as they waited for him to get it. "YOU CAN'T possibly think I KILLED HER!"

"Well there is a way to prove your innocence," Speed said. "Give us a DNA sample and let us take your fingerprints."

"DNA sample sure," the man was surprising quick to agree to. But at the same time, his hands curled into fists.

"You don't want to give us your fingerprints? Is that because you did kill Olivia, or because you tried to break into your colleagues' private files?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"To think, I was starting to believe you," Speed snapped. "But now I don't."

"There's two ways to do this," Eric said. "We can get the fingerprints willingly or we can wait 'til you're through booking and get them that way. Either way, we're getting your prints."

"And when we get them, we'll find your motive for killing her," Speed stated sternly.

"I DIDN'T KILL HER! I just…" the doctor threw up his hands and retreated in to himself. Eric, Yelina and Speed all exchanged glances. Eric gave them the 'should we pursue this some more' look. Speed just shrugged. This case wasn't turning out to be better than the last case they had months ago with the plastic surgeon who was killed by the nurse he was having an affair with.

Yelina silently gave Eric the go ahead.

"You just 'what,' Dr.Keaner? You only get to tell us once. If you don't come clean with us now, you won't a get a chance."

The man sighed, clearly struggling with a hangover and something else. It wasn't guilt, but it wasn't quite grief either.

"I just wanted to stop Carl before he told her," Keaner said with a sigh.

"And Carl is who?"

"Carl Claymore. We've known each other since college. And if you want to find out who killed Livvie, YOU SHOULD ASK HIM!"

"You're accusing your college buddy of killing her?" Speed couldn't help but retort, crossing his arms.

"I'm saying, he's the one that LIED to her and MADE HER break up with ME! He's the one who said she was seeing someone else." Pointing a finger, "I bet he's the guy that killed her."

Yelina slid a notepad and pen across the desk. "Give us the names and contact information for your guests so we can verify your statement."

"What about Carl?"

Yelina's smile didn't reach quite both cheeks. "We investigate all leads, doctor." He seemed satisfied with the answer, beginning to write on the pad. Eric went out and grabbed the necessary swabs and got a DNA sample. When finished, Keaner pushed the notepad back to them.

"What happens now?" he asked, pinching his nose once again.

"Now, Dr. Keaner, Narcotics has requested we book you on possession of an illicit substance," Detective Salas answered. "Someone will be coming to take you to central booking shortly."

"Where we'll get your fingerprints," Speed added snidely, "if they're not already on file. How many times have you been arrested on charges of possession?" Keaner's eyes flashed with anger.

"I want to call my lawyer." Speed managed to smirk. He liked it when the broke through the ego.

* * *

"So we have a sample to give to Valera," Eric stated. "Yet, no motive and an alibi. I want to say Keaner's not our guy. I mean, there's practically no time for him to go to the office, killer her, run home to clean up and then party hard, but something doesn't add up with him."

Yelina was checking the alibi while they walked to Valera's lab. Some officers and one or two of the detectives from Narcotics were gathering evidence from the apartment. The CSIs had already gone over it and there was nothing pertaining to the murder case there. No bloody clothes or shoes. No blood in the drain or transferred fibers.

"You mean, why he tried to bolt but then gives us a DNA sample, why the DNA and not the fingerprints," Speed deduced.

"Does it make any sense to you?"

"Well, he practically confessed to attempting to break into the office files," Speed answered. "Why? I'm thinking Claymore might know, since they're old friends. As for the rest…" He shrugged.

"Maybe the lab techs will turn up something," Eric said hopefully. "What next?"

"Just the gentlemen I was looking to see," Calleigh Duquense said, coming down the hall in the opposite direction.

"We've got a DNA sample from our suspect," Eric told her. She grinned.

"Well, maybe it will help us clear up some things, or maybe not," she said, handing over the report she got from Valera. As they read it, she filled them.

"So, I'm thinking we'll ask everyone to come in voluntarily and those that don't we should have a warrant for, if there aren't any objections?"

"You're going to actually get a warrant?" Speed joked. Warrant collection and delivery was one of those constant 'favors' Calleigh asked him for.

"I would ask you to fetch my warrant if I wasn't already going to ask you to review the evidence I got from the B&E this morning," Calleigh joked back. Speed rolled his eyes. He should have known. "It's just a little grit on my shoe imprint that might tell us where the suspect was before he broke in."

"Fine, I've got trace if you two can manage to handle the DNA," Speed said.

"What about the lotion?" Eric asked.

Speed had done some thinking of his own while waiting to question their suspect. "I'm going back to crime scene to see what I can gather to run a comparison test. If I can't find anything," he pointed to Eric, "you and I will have to hit the phones."

Eric nodded in agreement. "Anything to close the case."

The CSIs promptly split into their respective directions.

* * *

Speed had gotten lucky. Well…not as lucky as he had liked to have gotten, but there was only so much that could be done at the work place. He had swept up several varieties of lotion and creams at the scene, and after two hours of comparing samples, he had a match. Even the scent was the same. To top it off, the owner of the bottle had shown up to give a DNA sample.

Madeleine Ferenc, as office manager, had access total access to the crime scene, giving her means and opportunity. The question was, did she have a motive?

Because if they didn't find one, they might have to go back to the beginning. Yelina had stopped by and said she confirmed Keaner's alibi. She also handed them off the prints. AFIS, for whatever reason, hadn't given them a match but the ten-card did. So they knew he had been in those two personal offices, digging in the cabinets, at some point. The fact that Keaner hadn't admitted to doing it suggested it wasn't for good reason, a conclusion the team had already drawn, but it was a detail that could potentially screw over their timeline.

For the moment, they were building the theory that the two incidents had nothing to do with each other. That left only one person connected to the crime scene and the victim that they knew about.

"Mrs. Ferenc, we just had a few follow up questions to ask you," Calleigh told the woman, her tone low but friendly. He and she were the two conducting the interview this time, with Eric helping a frantic Valera with DNA. _Could you give a girl a warning?!_ Valera had said to them when they said they were hoping to deposit close two a dozen samples that needed to be compared to the DNA they already had on the weapon and beneath Olivia's nails. Because that DNA had come back female too. _DNA doesn't run itself, you know? This could take another 12 hour shift to get through!_

So in less Valera or Tyler had a major break through, this was the last step of the day.

"I don't think there's anymore I can tell you," the middle-aged woman said. She was still in the gray dress suit she was wearing earlier.

"Well it's our understanding that you and Ms. Delacroix often came in conflict with each other," Calleigh stated.

"I agree, that is true," Ferenc said. "We've had several arguments. Olivia was constantly running behind, constantly placing the blame on someone else for her shortfalls. While Dr. Hicks and Dr. Claymore thought her work was… thorough enough to pass over her… lack of punctuality, I knew allowing such behavior to be forgiven was a step towards it becoming standard practice."

"And you didn't want the affair to become standard practice, either, correct?"

Ferenc frowned. "I felt the affair was going to be disastrous for both of them. I can't say I wasn't happy when Olivia broke it off." She briefly paused, the thin line of her lips taking on a harsh smile. "She then started staying after work to finish her tasks, as opposed to…other things."

"Did you have an argument with her yesterday?" Speed asked.

"Yes, I did actually. Olivia was an hour late to the office. She blamed the traffic on the Causeway. I said it was no excuse. There was other ways to insure she got to work on time."

"Did your arguments become physical in any way?" Calleigh questioned.

"Absolutely not!" Ferenc cried. "And if anyone is saying so, they are lying!"

"How often do you use the hand lotion at your desk, Mrs. Ferenc?" It was back to being Speed's turn.

She instinctively began rubbing her hands. "Everyday. My skin cracks when it comes in contact with cold air. You wouldn't think that would happen in Miami, but with the air conditioning running at full blast most of the year, it does. The lotion's medicated to stop that from happening."

"Medicated? So no one else uses it?" Calleigh clarified.

"No one that I know about," Ferenc answered.

"Not Olivia?"

"No. I keep it at my desk. Everyone knows not to touch anything at my desk, especially Olivia. Now, what does this have to do with her death?"

"Traces of your lotion," Speed explained, "were found on her blouse. It was transferred on to the fabric from physical contact. Like a push."

"I don't know how it got there," Ferenc said, bewildered. "I never touched her. She never used my things…I just don't know."

"Well, does your hand lotion need a prescription to get it? Or can anyone get it over the counter?" Calleigh was still calm. There was no sense jumping the gun until DNA gave them a reason to.

"You know, I don't know. The first bottle I received was a Christmas present from Dr. Claymore. He said his wife had the same problem and that was the lotion that worked for her. When I ran out, he bought another bottle." She clasped her fingers. "He's a kind, generous man. He should have stuck to his medical degree instead of pursuing psychiatry."

"Just one more question, Mrs. Ferenc," Speed said. "Where were you between 7 and 9 pm last night?"

"At home, with my husband," she didn't hesitate to answer. "We had a late dinner, watched some television and then went to bed. " She sighed. "I will admit I did not like Olivia as an employee. As a person…I did not want her dead, detectives. Despite her problems, she was…a decent person."

Five minutes later, Speed and Calleigh were heading back to the layout room, passing two lab techs that hurried to scuttle out of their way. Speed just raised his eyebrows as Calleigh followed them like a hawk, mentioning them hiding something. They had told Ferenc that they would call her back in if they had more questions.

Their case was going no where. The fingerprints on the cabinet were accounted for. Any on the murder weapon were swiped. Nothing unusual about the prints on her desk. No fingerprints, no palm prints. And to top it off, they were notified that Keaner's DNA wasn't on the murder weapon.

The only name that kept coming up was Claymore. Olivia had died in his office; he apparently had interfered with her relationship with Keaner; and he was the second person they knew had contact with the lotion.

"He is worth investigating," Calleigh said. "At this stage, though, if he doesn't cooperate.."

"We've got nothing," Speed finished.

Just a second later, both of their pagers went off. The screen read '411 Tyler.'

"Apparently we've got more than nothing," Calleigh quipped, the two suddenly changing direction.


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, editing this again, because Kohanita was wonderful and pointed out my Spanish blunders! Yay! I can always use native speaker!

But I'm going to repeat the message for those that didn't read it on the first version. I'm sorry for the later than average update. I've got a part time job now (yay!) and I'm working during the hours I was writting. In any case, I hope to have the next two chapters up by Halloween, but I'm making no promises. I'm starting chapter 9 tomorrow, and it should be simple. Chapter 10 should be packed with adult content, if the muses cooperate!

Oh, and I'm not going to beg, but I would love some feedback :) It keeps me focused! Even if it's something along the lines of "keep up the good work" or "you're moving too slow!" :)

* * *

Miami-Dade County Crime Lab never threw away evidence from a case, no matter how long ago the case was. Each case was given at least one box; the autopsy report was the first file in it, along with the initial police report and any witness statements; the murder weapon and any physical evidence was stored later, all of it in an individual brown bag.

It took some digging—thousands and thousands of crime had been committed since the case—but Horatio found the cardboard box and, after finding an empty layout room, removed the faded seal. It was impressive how much information and evidence they had fit into the box, and yet how little. They hadn't known half the techniques the CSIs employed now; the courts had been skeptical at some of trace evidence that was so common, and the scientists weren't that comfortable explaining the basics to a jury of people who weren't their peers.

He pulled out the autopsy report and the accounting files first. There was nothing there he hadn't read a thousand times before. He moved on to the murder weapon, a Colt .45, and the two bullets that had been removed from Eduardo Herrara's body. A few more bags later, he found himself pulling out the swabs he had collected from the Castenada house. Those hadn't changed in fifteen years—still the same size and material.

It amazed him that even now he could recall exactly where he was standing on the property when he took those. Of course, Monica had been there, and she wasn't the kind of person one forgot…

_**FLASHBACK**_

**August 1988**

**Castenada Residence**

They hadn't been permitted into the bedrooms or the second floor, because Ms. Castenada had insisted that the guests wouldn't have had access to those areas of the house. What rooms they were allowed in were being cleaned, any hint of a crime scene hidden or long gone in the hustle to return the manor back to the way it was. The knowledge was disconcerting, but Horatio did his best to keep his eyes peeled. He could see Waverly was narrowing on objects like a hawk determined to find a rabbit in an overgrown field.

Slowly, the trio made their way outside to the back of the mansion.

"I would suppose the outside might be more helpful to you than in," Ms. Castenada said, waving a hand at her backyard. She had taken in their close inspections with a smile and a degree of confidence that Horatio admired.

"Unlike your husband's 'smoking room'?" was Waverly's curt retort.

"There is no smoking room to show," Ms. Castenada countered back coolly. Because he looked surprise, she added, "It came with the change of régimes, Lieutenant. I don't allow smoking in the house for health reasons. My husband respects that."

"Well Eduardo Herrara smoked, did he not?" Horatio asked, despite the fact they had found a cigar in his breast pocket.

She nodded. "Yes. Outside. All the smokers go to the gazebo." She pointed to the right quadrant of her property. "Last night was no exception."

Horatio slowly walked across the grounds, Ms. Castenada following not too far behind him. He noted the prevalent foot traffic and checked to see if any of the stepping stones had been disturbed.

Painted in revolutionary colors and having its own light source in the form of decorated lanterns, the gazebo was more than just a wooden, enclosed porch. Inside was a pool table and a small television set next to cigar case. The dozen or so seats had cushions and there was even a foot rest in the corner. It was, more or less, a club house.

A well cleaned one at that. The glasses had been washed, the bottles of alcohol aligned in their rightful place, the trashed emptied. At first glance, there looked like there was nothing to see.

Then Horatio's eyes fell on the seat cushion.

The traces of blood splatter were located along the left side, indicating where someone had been standing. He could picture it in his mind: Herrara standing and turning, him in mid-motion as the gun goes off; the bullet penetrating the chest cavity, striking the vascular tubing of the lung; the blood hitting the top of the seat from the gun shot; in shock, Herrara dropping to his knees, seconds later expirating blood, the spray hitting the lower cushion.

Blood would have also spattered the right wall and the floor. However, no stains were present, but that didn't mean they weren't there. It was easy to see why the pillow had been missed; the color was the same as fresh blood. But as it dried, the splatter was revealed.

Horatio opened his kit and grabbed the phenolphthaleine just as someone else entered. From the light tread of the person who entered the gazebo, he knew it was Ms. Castenada.

"Were there any, complications, at the party, Ms. Castenada?"

"How would you, ah, define, a complication, Detective Caine?" she asked cautiously, her eyes taking in the swab and the bottle. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I just don't know what you're asking."

The first swab was for DNA type matching. The second was for proof that it was blood to begin with. "Did anyone get hurt? Possibly a member of the staff, maybe?"

"No," she answered. From the corner of his eye, he caught her shaking her head. "May I ask what are you doing?"

She was just curious, not a hint of fear or animosity in her voice.

"Phenolphthaleine is a reagent that turns a certain color when it comes in contact with blood and hydrogen peroxide," Horatio explained, dropping a bit of reagent on the swab.

"Isn't phenolpthaleine the same chemical that turns pink in the presence of starches, like potatoes or horseradish?"

Horatio looked at her, a little thrown by the question. Yes, that was true, but most people outside of chemists and law enforcement personnel knew that.

Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. Ms. Castenada took his lack of response as condemnation. "I read a variety of different things. Science magazines are one of them."

"It's not that, it's just…" It was while he was fumbling for words that he noticed that the swab was colored. "Pink."

It was that moment that Lieutenant Waverly stepped in.

"Did you find something?"

"I'm going to need to take this," Horatio told them both, slowly putting the pillow in a brown paper bag, "as well as the chair itself." He paused to think of how to phrase things. "And…I think…we're going to need to talk to those on that staffed this morning's clean up as well as last night's festivities."

Horatio then looked his boss dead in the eyes. "We've got blood."

_**End FLASHBACK**_

Horatio decided to hold off dragging up the boxes from the drug indictment and chose to check his e-mail instead. Detective Rouvin had managed to send some of the crime scene photos thus far, along with notes from her book. _I realized that while I didn't have the evidence anymore, I at least wrote down what it was. Witness statements might help you as well. _The detective had typed out captions to go with the pictures. The rest of the e-mail contained two witness statements and a notation about the theft at the Sauer apartment that Miranda had told Horatio about earlier.

Soledad Rouvin was a damn good detective. He was going to have to find some way to thank her when this was all over.

Opening the attachments, he didn't pay that much attention to the pictures themselves as the captions. But laying the pictures out was like a blow to the chest.

Monica hadn't change much over the years. Her hair was shorter and had more of an orange tint to it. The circles under her eyes were just a shade or two darker; there were a few wrinkles around her eyes. The eyes themselves…

He started focusing on the facts. Two gunshot wounds, one in the back and the other above the right eye; more than likely from a sniper. Miranda and Monica—Martina Sauer—had gone to the mall. The two had been walking from their car, heading to the store. The parking lot level had been one just below the roof. Not many cars had been parked on that level yet, so visibility was good.

Someone had taken pictures of a gun pounder residue cone from a building across the parking lot. The distance was close to 350 feet away. He could tell from the blood splatter on the back of the SUV that the shot to the back had been first, making the kill shot second.

The first shot could have been to immobilize and the second to kill. Rouvin's records also stated that no other bullets were fired. No casings were found. Video feed only covered inside the parking lot, so the shooter was not caught on film.

So it was someone who knew what they were doing. Not military, because of the shot to the back. But no stranger to the role of a sniper. That left HRT, SWAT, and ATF.

That left the Feds.

Someone inside the federal government had targeted a woman in Witness Protection. The FBI must had already known Monica was in danger, if they showed up before the Phoenix police had time to run Monica's fingerprints. But if they had thought her cover had been blown, the Marshals would have moved them and changed their identity. So the feds obviously hadn't thought her in danger because of her past.

Yet they had taken Miranda into their custody instead of letting Child Services handle the situation. The shooter had the opportunity to kill Miranda but didn't, instead shooting two agents to get to her later, when she was at a secure location. Which meant the shooter was high enough in the food chain to get that kind of information. Which was what the crime was all about. Both the FBI and the sniper thought Miranda had something of value to them, something she knew, and both would come running to Miami once they managed to try her down.

No, Horatio thought, no calling the FBI. They would be at his doorstep soon enough, asking questions. But Horatio had questions of his own.

"What trouble did you find now, Monica?"

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

Valera knocked lightly on the glass door before stepping into the layout room. She had sneakily left Eric in the DNA lab on the pretense of having to use the bathroom. Call it a hunch, but she knew the Lieutenant didn't want the rest of the team knowing the results of the DNA he'd had her run.

She was sure he didn't realize it, but when a case was personal to him, the Lieutenant got this look in his eyes. It was hard to describe in words, really. Partially sorrow, partially anxious, and a sliver of hopeful. Or something like that. Again, it was hard to describe in words.

Call it another hunch, but Valera also thought the DNA scan had something to do with the redhead teenager that had shown up at the Crime Lab this morning. Normally, a visitor wouldn't have caused much of a stir, but it was the evasive maneuvering she did when answering Paula's questions that caught everyone's eyes. That and, yes, the red hair. The eyes were freakishly familiar too.

So the lab was buzzing. Yet the lab techs would find something else to gossip about tomorrow as long as the story didn't continue to develop. Or keeping the CSIs from getting wind of it. A task easier said than done.

Valera realized the second she told her friend Calleigh that there was another stupid rumor in the lab and not to pay attention to it, that the blonde was going to investigate. It was psychology, a subject Valera hadn't done very well in college. She could only hope to do better by not being caught talking to the Lieutenant alone by either the other lab techs or CSIs.

It took the Lieutenant a second longer than usual to look up from what he was doing to see her.

"Valera," he said cordially, straightening his posture.

"Got your results," she said, handing over the paper. "The DNA is not a match. It has none of the loci in common with Rafael Castenada."

"Not a match," he echoed as he looked over the data.

"I hope that it helps," Valera added anxiously. The Lieutenant hadn't looked up. He was absorbed in the evidence he was sorting through. Sometimes, that was a good sign. Other times…

"I can run compare it to another DNA sample when you give me one," Valera continued, trying not to become nervous and starting to fail. She wanted to help out as much as possible. But considering she didn't know how the situation had turned out the last time she did a 'random' test for him, she didn't know if she was out two strikes or not.

"No, this will be all. Thank you, Valera." She knew a dismissal when she heard one, but it didn't sting when Lieutenant Caine said it.

It was more than the sincerity of his tone. It was the fact that his previous actions spoke louder than words. Sure, he still startled her when he 'magically' popped into her lab. But he had hired her despite the punk style she fashion, something that the other lab supervisors had used against her when hiring. They had also singled her out for being a victim of a crime, seeing a possible law suit on their hands if she decided to take justice into her own hands and screw with the evidence (which she would never do!), while he had seen her as a stronger person for it.

She nodded and headed back to her lab, stopping at the layout room door to look over her shoulder. Her boss was lost in thought. He hadn't looked her in the eye or even checked to see if she had left yet, which told Valera one thing: a storm was coming.

* * *

_**FLASHBACK**_

**August 1988**

**Castenada Residence**

MONICA! Que pasas? Por qué estas siendo arrestada?" the man shouted as he walked towards Ms. Castenada and Detective Caine. Tall with wavy, chocolate brown hair that was a little long on a man, he looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He wore a sheik brown and cream suit and a white button up shirt. Horatio didn't have to be a detective to figure out  
who he was.

"Rafael, No hay nada de que preocuparse te lo juro." She went to him, then, reaching out for one of his hands. "Eduardo Herrara ha sido asesinado. Saben que él estaba co nosotros parte de la noche. Pensan que quisas el agresor es alguien de aquí. Ellos solo quieren sabe que paso."

"Por qué no me contactaste? Ay yay yay, Monica! " he exacerbated.

They were on the verge of having their search warrant delivered. Several officers had been called in to interview the staff. A few of the domestics were cooperating. Most were afraid of the police or were afraid of loosing their jobs. Ms. Castenada had tried to console them and had been a translator for a few, but everyone that had cooperated so far had not been near the gazebo last night or today.

Horatio felt like he should step in, because Ms. Castenada didn't know the whole truth. She believed her husband to be innocent, and maybe he was. But Lieutenant Waverly didn't think so, and Horatio…he was waiting to talk to Mr. Castenada.

"Mr. Castenada, your wife has been mentoring us since we arrived and, has tried to assist us in, getting some details since we couldn't find you," Horatio stated, putting his sunglasses back on.

"And what exactly is it you're looking for, Detective?" Mr. Castenada questioned angrily.

"Caine." He didn't bother trying to explain that he was actually a CSI. "Right now, we're looking for evidence of what happened to Eduardo Herrara's car, and the weapon that killed him."

"You think he was murdered here? At my home?! Under my watch?!" Castenada was outraged, taking a step closer to Caine.

"Rafael, por favor!" Ms. Castenada's hand on him tightened.

"We were told Eduardo Herrara stayed after the party, and that he would have been with you. Can you tell me what happened after most of the guests left?" Horatio was happy that he had long ago mastered the blank face.

Rafael looked like he was about to explode or demand a lawyer.

"Sweetheart, we haven't done anything wrong and he knows that," Monica said softly. "If we answer all their questions, they'll get a new lead and leave us alone. And Maranela would want us to do everything to catch her husband's killer."

Rafael sighed and all the steam he was holding seemed to come out. "You're, right. You're absolutely right." He paused for a moment, one hand settling on his wife's lower back as he addressed Horatio. "As you already know, we had a party. Most of the guests left by…I would say 3 or 3:30 in the morning. Eduardo Herrara was one of a few of the gentlemen that stayed later. Eduardo is an old friend of my family, so that's not unusual.

"We all went to the gazebo. Smoked some cigars. Drank a little bit more. Played a game of pool. Again," Castenada noted, "nothing we haven't normally done."

"When did they leave?" Horatio asked, his memo book open.

"Sometime between 4:30 and 5," Rafael answered, slightly twisting the ring on his middle finger.

"Did you see them out?"

"Excuse me?"

Horatio tilted his shades down, exposing the tops of his eyes. "It's a simple question. Your wife explained to us that you both see your guests out. Did you, see him out the door?"

"No," he answered. "Eduardo knew his way around my home as much as I do. I said good night and left him to finish off his cigar."

Maybe it was the truth, but for a man to suddenly deviate from his 'normal' routine, as he clearly described to Horatio, maybe it was more. Horatio smiled, and it wasn't a happy one. Especially when his eyes fell on Ms. Castenada. She suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"I'm going to go back inside, now that you're here," she said quietly. Without any acknowledgement, she let got of her husband's hand and walked back to the mansion at a quick pace, steering clear of Waverly as she left.

Horatio followed her, pretending to jot more notes in his memo book. The pathway she took was suddenly bustling with excitement, as the warrant had arrived. "Well, we're almost done here. I'm just going to need you to show me where Mr. Herrara parked his car last night." He paused to make it seem like the next request was an afterthought, "Oh, and the clothes you were wearing last night."


	9. Chapter 9

The formating is a little screwy for the second half of the story; I loaded it left-aligned, but no matter what I do, it won't. Stop. Centering. And I'm too tired to argue with the site anymore. So hopefully, it wouldn't be too much of a problem for you all.

* * *

Calleigh and Speed stepped into the AV lab. Tyler was waiting for them, sitting at the computer. His hair was back to the ruffled style he had when he started working at the lab.

Gadgets and papers were scattered everywhere. The Crime Lab had recently gotten new software and a new computer console, but hadn't moved the old one out yet. Apparently the Budgeting Committee was still deciding one of the lower profile counties to 'give' the old technology to.

It was just another reminder that they needed a newer, more advanced lab, a lab the county was going to begin building until the beginning of next year.

"You got something for us?" Calleigh asked as she pulled up a chair. Speed took the other chair, so the CSIs were on both sides of the AV tech.

"Security finally got around to giving me the footage and card swipe data from last night at the Le Descreux building," Tyler answered, bringing up the window. "Now, the card system isn't all that sophisticated. Every card has the same routing number that is encoded in the swipe of the card. You simply need to present it on the electronic lock to have it opened. Which is why security doesn't keep record of which card was used, because to the computer, they are virtually all the same."

"So the swipe cards aren't going to help us," Speed stated.

"There's more," Tyler explained. "The cards themselves are the same, but each cardholder has their own personal PIN number they have to enter to get into the employee authorized areas of the building. Security gave me a list of PIN numbers and who they belong to."

Tyler brought up the records from last night. "Outside of PINs used by the security officers, none of which entered the suit assigned to Keaner, Claymore Practice, there was one PIN. It was entered twice. Once at 7:15, and then at 7:21."

Calleigh read the name. "Claymore."

"That's the fourth time his name has come up," Speed said.

"It means someone used his PIN, but it doesn't necessarily mean it was him," Calleigh sighed.

"In any case, I thought it was important," Tyler said.

"What about the video footage?" Calleigh inquired.

"Cameras are stationed on all the parking levels. Guests and employees are on one camera feed, employer parking on another feed, "Tyler revealed. "Security gave me the footage from the first, but says the later system has been down for the past week. So while I can't tell you who went into that parking deck, I can tell you no one entered the other two."

"We definitely need to talk to Claymore again," Calleigh concluded. "Thank you, Tyler. You might have just given us a break."

"That's what they pay me for," he said as the CSIs left.

"Do you remember what the statement he gave to Horatio said about where he was last night?" Calleigh asked, not having been in the room.

"Fifth anniversary dinner with his wife," Speed recollected. "Left early and accidently left the door to his office open."

"Convenient."

"Yeah. We need to confirm his alibi and find out who else would have his PIN number."

"Well, it's five o'clock," Calleigh sighed again. "We could invite Dr. Claymore to have a chat with us, but with Valera backed up in DNA, we can't possibly know if we've already found our killer until tomorrow."

"I say we call Yelina and get her to check out Claymore's alibi and use the rest of the day to finish the paperwork," Speed suggested. "I know I've still got to write up the trace results from your B&E."

"Right," Calleigh agreed. "I'll call Yelina, ask her how the B & E's going since she let go of Keaner, and get her to pull Olivia's phone records, just to be sure we haven't missed anything. And we'll just have to come in bright and early to see what's what."

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

Speed slipped on his headphones and the next hour seemed to fly by. There was still no sign of his lover. He hadn't popped in Speed's lab once, or found him in the halls and waved. It was suspicious.

The scruffy CSI finally broke down at the end of the day and asked Calleigh and Eric if they had seen their boss. Neither had, but Calleigh mentioned him calling her and sounding distracted. A little distracted was one thing. They all often got a little distracted on a case, absorbed in a potential lead that they wouldn't notice anyone come into their lab or miss a meal.

This was different. It was more than immeasurable 'gut' instinct that H and the detectives used that told him so. He had known H for six years. Granted, five of those years were as coworkers, friends and, at the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, as his secret crush. But he knew H, knew that only one of his cold cases or a family matter managed to keep him away. It was just a question of which one.

With that in mind, he went to hunt down his lover.

You wouldn't think someone could hide in a place full of glass walls, but it was possible. The black marble and navy enamel created shadows. Looking through the glass was sometimes as fruitless as gazing into murky water; you wouldn't see the shark until it was about to bite you.

A faint glimpse of red hair had him entering one of the older layout rooms. As suspected, his lover was tensely hunched over one of the tables, an evidence box on one side of him. He had pictures arranged on his left with a note pad to jolt notes down and what looked like an e-mail print out; on the right, a series of evidence bags.

"Hey," Speed called softly after he walked in. Blue eyes sparkled when they met his, a slight, tired smile on H's face.

"Hey."

"You ready to go home?"

Horatio's eyes darted to the clock. Seeing the time, he chuckled mirthlessly. "The day seems to have slipped away from me." He shook his head. "I've got to stay and see if there's anything else I missed."

This time, Speed shook his head. "Even you need to look at evidence with fresh eyes. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow. You can come in bright and early with the rest of us, if you want."

Amused, "You ordering me home?"

"Only if you need me to."

Horatio chuckled again, and this time it was a real laugh. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours. I've still got clothes there and it's a quicker drive."

"You do already own the kitchen."

"Besides, it might throw off suspicion." Eyebrows suddenly rose. "I'll explain later. After dinner. Which, I'm thinking, is going to be chicken stir-fry."

"Sounds good. Let me get this packed up and we'll head out, okay?"

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

When the night shift's DNA analyst arrived an hour before her shift actually started, Eric and Valera decided to pass the rest of lab processing off to her. They did pretty well, if Eric didn't say so himself. They had just five samples left to run compared to the fifteen they started with.

As much as Eric loved to bag the bad guys on the first day, he was happy to be clocking out. If he had to create one more vial, he might have lost it. Sure, most of the time he didn't mind the work or what he did in toxicology; it was putting his chemistry degree to go use. He was just glad he didn't have to do it everyday. Fingerprinting definitely wasn't as tedious.

Maybe some of it was nervous energy, too. He had planned on telling Speed about him and Calleigh weeks ago, and not in the hallway of the MDPD crime lab, either. But his best friend was a hard man to get a hold of—outside of work, of course. Speed was coming in early and leaving later than usual. Unless the CSI was on call, Eric couldn't reach his cell or his home phone. If the Cuban-Russian didn't know better, he would have thought Speed had a girlfriend.

When the conclusion was drawn, Eric first felt a surge of relief. And Speed, for all appearances, seemed okay with it. Which was good, because there was a time that Eric felt Speed and Calleigh could have gotten together, and while Calleigh had reassured him that there wasn't _anyway_, Eric wasn't too sure. He knew his friend had his eyes on somebody at the lab for the longest time, and by process of elimination, it had to have been Calleigh.

But then, the anxiety had trickled in. He really wasn't that worried about what H would say, because they had already discussed the situation in hypotheticals and H had no problems with two coworkers having a relationship, as long as they separated work from their personal lives. Speed's opinion, however strange, mattered.

Maybe it was because Speed was close friends with both of Eric and Calleigh. Eric didn't want him to feel like a third wheel with them or that he was going to have to choose sides. Eric had been in that position often enough to know it sucked.

So the plan was to have dinner, have a few drinks, try to explain that Eric was over the moon for Calleigh—that she fit perfectly into this piece of Eric's life that he had been missing, that know else got his heart racing just by looking at him, that he's found someone he doesn't have to hold back things from—okay, maybe that wasn't going to be as difficult as he thought.

In turn, he'd find out what was going on with Speed and H. Maybe they were working an old case and weren't willing to tell the team yet. Or maybe Speed was just being Speed—evasive about his private life—and they would find out something about a new girl.

However, he knew his plan wasn't going to happen when he saw Speed and H heading to the locker room.

"You running out of me?" Eric joked. Speed seemed to remember his early promise and swore.

"Hey, I'm going to have to take a rain check," Speed said once he saw Eric down the hall. "Something's come up and I can't do it. Tomorrow, alright?"

"I'm holding you to tomorrow, though," Eric cautioned. "I can't remember the last time all three of us went out."

Speed nodded before exiting. Eric sighed a second later. The competitive streak in him wasn't generally fond of anyone knowing more than he did about a subject, and the growing up in a big family had taught him that he liked to be included in, well, just about everything. So to say the situation was bugging him would have been an understatement.

"What?" Calleigh asked, coming up beside him.

"There's something going on with those two," Eric said, knowing that she would know who he was referring two. "I just don't know what it is."

Calleigh smiled mischievously. "Oh, you'll be surprised that's for sure."

"You know?!" He exclaimed with a scowl.

Her grin just got wider. "Yes, and I would tell you, but a secret's a secret, and it's not mine to tell. But…when you think you know what it is, you can ask me and I'll let you know how hot or cold you are."

Eric grinned back. "Deal. But now that Speed's canceled on us, what are we going to do?"

"Well, Dr. Claymore and his wife apparently spent a nice evening at Fleur de Lis last night, and I know for a fact they have some of the best deserts in town," Calleigh explained sweetly. "I was thinking, we stop by and ask the staff about them, grab a slice of Devil's Food cake, and take the party back to my place."

"I like how you think."


	10. Chapter 10

I'm sooooooooo sorry this is really late. I could give you a list of reasons…or I could just say: Here it is! I planned on this chapter being much longer, but it's been too long since I last posted to wait.

Remember, this actually the first time I've written smut. So be gentle!

* * *

The door to Horatio's condo closed fast, it having only been open wide enough for them to slip through before it was slammed shut. Speed found himself against it a second later, his face being cradled in his lover's hands.

"I love you, Tim," Horatio said, staring him in the eyes with all the intensity of a hurricane about to make landfall. "You _have_ to know _that_." There was love and lust burning in those cobalt blues, but also sorrow and fear.

Speed's stomach twisted. He answered with a nod, because the words won't come. Not that either of them haven't said them before.

No, Tim's mind was racing. This mood his lover was in wasn't brought on by a case. It was something personal. Something Horatio thought would give Speed pain or cause him to leave.

Of course, nothing came to mind that would drive Tim away, or set Horatio off like this. Nothing horrible had happened to either of them on this day. Nothing related to the current case.

Ray Jr. was away at summer camp, so he doubted anything happened to him. If something had happened regarding Yelina or Stetler, Tim was sure he would have heard about it by now. Susie had just called to give an update on Madison yesterday, so unless they had gotten in an accident, which, again, he would have heard about, he didn't have a clue.

So Tim just leaned back against the steel lined wood, relinquishing himself completely to Horatio. He knew he wasn't going to get any straight answers this instant; that would only happen after the rush of sex and his lover feeling relaxed and back in control of his life.

The reaction was one Tim wanted. Horatio caught his lips and then they were dueling for control, only Tim already knew he was willing to surrender it, already had. He let their tongues tangle for a few minutes, stroking across the roof of his mouth, teeth occasionally scraping. Then he all but let his mouth melt into Horatio's.

Hands were swiftly running up and down his shirt, pulling the gray fabric out of his jeans so they could reach skin. In return, Tim was slowly sliding his hands in to the sleeves of Horatio's suit, undoing the small buttons on the wrist, his fingers sensually stroking the pulse point.

Not long after that, they began walking down the hall, Tim's back to the Spartan passage as Horatio kissed and guided him down it. It wasn't the first time he was thankful Horatio's place was one level, unlike Tim's loft with its troublesome stairs, and of course it wouldn't be the last.

Tim's shirt came off first, exposing his chest and nipples to being caressed and pinched. Speed had already unbuttoned the bottom half of Horatio's sapphire shirt. He only faltered after the first pinch to his right nipple, a moan slipping between the kisses, before finishing off the rest.

He didn't remember when his lover's shirt fell to floor, or when they entered the bedroom. The only thing that alerted him to his location was the soft spring of the mattress as he landed on it. And then he wasn't thinking at all.

Horatio was over him, devouring him, eliciting as many gasps and moans as he could. Licking the shell of his ear, biting just bellow the collarbone, taking Tim's nipples into the warm cavern of his mouth and sucking them into peaks.

And Tim wasn't being idle, either. His hands glided over the hot, fair skin, making their way to his lover's belt. With practiced skill, he undid the belt buckle and pulled the leather out of the pants. The buttons on the pants themselves were not an issue after that.

"I want you Tim. Please, please, let me…" Horatio's voice trailed off, but the plea was understood.

"Anyway, Horatio. Always." The words were falling out of his lips before he registered them, but they were nevertheless true. _And forever_, Tim's mind supplied.

The rest of their clothes were off in a flash. Tim moved further up the bed, pulling back the navy comforter and cream sheets as he went. He unbashfully spread his bare legs so his lover could slide between them.

Horatio couldn't help but pause at the sight. His lover waiting for him, lean chest exposed, erect cock leaking pre-cum. There was so much trust and love in those chocolate brown eyes. No doubt or fear; some concern, yes, but not for himself. It made him gasp.

Whatever happened, he couldn't loose this; Tim was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved Tim; Tim completed him in a way no one else previously had or would. He couldn't loose this. The thought became a mantra as Horatio crawled on to the bed.

He kissed Tim deeply, reacquainting himself to the taste of him. The kiss quickly became heated, Tim leaning upward to meet him, and reluctantly he drew away, pulling a groan from his lover as Tim's head fell back against the pillow. At a pace that kept Horatio's heart pounding, he worked down Tim's body until a single touch had Tim twisting beneath him, moaning, a thin layer of sweat against the peach skin.

His crystal eyes took in the flush skin before ranking his hands up and down Tim's thighs, gently spreading them further.

Tim arched up, a long, low moan escaping his throat as Horatio suddenly engulfed his hard, aching cock. Horatio didn't tease him; massaging him with his tongue, licking and sucking and only continuing to increase the speed and suction with every swipe. Hands unconsciously found their way to Tim's hips to hold him steady. The younger man could only grunt and groan.

"So close…" Tim warned, gripping the sheets. Blue eyes met brown and held a command in them: _come for me_. But Tim was a sadist; he always tried to draw out the pleasure. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, but it was no use. The wet heat and the pressure were wearing him down.

His eyes flew open and he came with a shot, Horatio swallowing it all.

Tim came back to himself with the snap of a lid being opened. His heart rate kicked up a notch when he saw that his lover had already pulled out some of their supplies from the nightstand.

They kissed again as one slick finger entered Tim. The feeling of Horatio's hard arousal at his hip and the sensation of being stretched reawakened his cock.

"More," he demanded, his voice rough in that tell-tale way of having just orgasm. With a hint of a smile, Horatio obliged, slowly letting the second finger scissor Tim. By the third, Tim was trying not to thrash. He didn't need slow; not now. "In me now, please," he pleaded, and saying 'please' was always the closest he came to begging.

He heard the condom being unwrapped and watched raptly as his lover position himself, but it still didn't prepare him for the lighting quick thrust into his body. Tim moaned, first because of the burn and then in pleasure. Horatio withdrew only to plunge fully in again.

Faster and faster, he thrust. He took Tim's hard cock in his hand and stroked it at the same pace, thumb teasing the head. Gasping, Tim arched into the hand.

Horatio could feel the pressure building and he increased his strokes. Then Tim's body clenched around him and with the force of a freight train he came, calling his lover's name. A second later, Tim followed, cum spilling across Horatio's hand and Tim's chest.

The two lay there, catching their breath, listening to each other's heart beats, minutes passing them by. Finally, Horatio got up and went in the master bath to get them a wet washcloth.

"Not that I'm complaining," Tim said, leaning back on his elbows as he moved to sit up, "but where did that come from?"

Embarrassed, Horatio blushed. "Um..how about I explain over dinner?"

Tim grinned. "That's the second best idea you've had."

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

It was all or nothing, Horatio realized as Tim was cooking dinner. He was going to have to tell his lover about Monica and the pending entanglement they were about to get thrown into. He had to trust Tim to understand, to trust him as he always had.

And he had to know whether he was a father, whether Miranda was _his_ daughter.

He'd always wanted to be a father, but had long ago given up on ever becoming one. With the job and his preferences, he saw it as next to impossible. He had more or less settled for being a father-figure to Ray Jr. and Madison, a role that was equally important to him as his job. Yet the full weight of being a parent was never upon him. He never held their lives in his hands every second of everyday, like he did his team when they were at work.

He hadn't had to run a comparison against his own DNA for the same reason he didn't have to run Madison's against Ray's. When he returned to CSI, his first collar back had turned his arrest into a standoff with a hostage. He was forced to shoot the suspect, but not before the man got some rounds of his own, one of which grazed Horatio's arm. Megan had taken a swab to confirm his story, and when the case was closed he had asked for copies.

The copy of the report and a reprint of the DNA results went into a folder, which was placed in a box that sat on the top shelf of his closet. It was one of two boxes he kept: one of all the cases he was forced to kill someone in the line of duty, the other of cases that remained unsolved. He pulled out the first box and located the file, quickly locating the DNA report.

He then grabbed the DNA results that Valera had given him earlier in the day that he had placed in his inner jacket pocket. All he had to do was unfold the paper and read the locai and he would get his answer.

His hand was shaking. Not enough that anyone would notice, but he felt every tremble. He hadn't been this nervous since he had convinced his mother to take Ray and leave their father. They had hurriedly packed all the necessary belongings, feeling every moment creep by them, expecting the door to slam open and announce the senior Caine's arrival.

But he knew why he had been afraid then. He had no clue as to why a single sheet of paper filled him with trepidation now. Was he afraid he had gotten his hopes up? Or was he afraid of the truth?

"Hey, Horatio!" Tim shouted, causing Horatio to freeze.

"Yes?"

"Care to explain what's in my inbox?"

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

While Tim was letting the meat cook on its own before adding the vegetables he had cut up, he went to check his e-mail. He didn't receive any mail regularly. Occasionally there would be a note from an old professor, an update from Megan, or from another friend he hadn't heard from in awhile checking in. Most of the time, however, he got alerts from the science journals he subscribed to, coupons from the bookstores that he had memberships with, and updates about the latest in motorcycle gear from the store he bought tune-up supplies for his Ducati.

This time, he found a letter from his mother. Really, that wasn't all that surprising. Sure, they hadn't _really_ talked in almost twelve years, but he always got a card at Christmas with a letter letting him know what was going on and what Jonathan, his younger brother, was doing, as well as on his birthday, which was next week. He was expecting another e-mail on his birthday too. It seemed that though his father had disowned him, his mother couldn't give him up completely.

The latest news from the Speedles said that Jonathan had graduated high school a couple of weeks ago (a fact Tim knew already, and his mother knew that he was aware too, since he had actually gotten up the courage to send his brother a graduation present in the form of a gift card) and decided that he would be attending John Hopkins University in the fall. Again, Tim wasn't surprise. His parents expected nothing less than the best for their children, which was another reason he wasn't on speaking terms with them.

He felt a twinge of guilt at having missed his baby brother's graduation, or better yet, missing the last twelve years of his life. Jonathan had been in kindergarten when Tim had left for Columbia. He had forced himself not to care about leaving the little brother he had babysat and raised for six years behind, taking his father's words to heart that he was no longer a member of the family. It was his one regret, because he knew what it was like growing up in the Speedle household with parents who cared more about their careers than their child, and Jonathan didn't have the grandmother to love him like Tim had.

It also reminded him that he was getting old. He was turning 31 next week. Not 29, not 30, but 31. He remembered thinking once after Andrew had died that he would never live to see thirty. He nearly hadn't—he couldn't forget Dispo Day or the fire at Club Descent two years ago. Those two experiences had taught him about living and lead to his relationship with Horatio, so really, he should be thankful to be celebrating his birthday. Except he couldn't help but morbidly think that turning 31 meant he was half way to his grave.

So he moved on to the next e-mail. He didn't recognize the address, and that fact that heading said the e-mail was for 'Lt. Caine' raised the hairs on the back of his neck. But he opened it anyway. Reading the notes carefully and slowly opening the pictures, he finally started to develop a theory as to what was going on.

He quickly saved the information to the hard drive and then went on to the next e-mail. It looked like one of those intra-departmental memos from the crime lab. Which had Speed wondering who had the time to send one of those, besides IAB?

Silently reading it, he had to laugh. Okay, something odd had happened in the lab when he had been chasing coke-head doctors around, and he wanted to know what that was.

"Hey, Horatio?"

Close to a minute passed before he heard a, "Yes?"

"Care to explain what's in my inbox?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw his lover enter the room. He'd changed into a T shirt and a worn pair of jeans. When Calleigh had caught Tim in a lie, he was lucky she hadn't asked what their boss had changed in to. He didn't know what answer would have shocked her more: nothing at all, or something casual. Tim grinned. He was the only one who got to see his lover like this, and he planned on keeping it that way.

"Which one?"

"I get that the pictures are for a case you're working on. It's the internal memo. I feel like I'm back in high school." He proceeded to read it out loud. "To the Employees of the Miami-Dade Crime Lab: It has come to my attention that more speculating on personal business of co-workers than case evidence is being done. If this behavior continues, I will be forced to take disciplinary action." Then, "What I want to know is, what pissed you off and why didn't you just fire who ever did it?"

"Actually, it was Alexx who recommended the passive-aggressive approach, and firing half the crime lab wouldn't be a good idea," Horatio answered with a smirk.

Hearing the sizzle of the frying pan, Tim went back into the kitchen and the stove, chuckling. "Did she help you write it too?"

"She made some suggestions." Tim just rolled his eyes and continued to laugh.

"So what's the memo really about?"

Seeing the table already set, Horatio got two beers out of the fridge for them. "Well, someone came to the crime lab today and sent the staff buzzing. Right now, this case needs to be very, low profile and…since I expect the FBI to show up soon…I couldn't have that."

Looking over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, Tim concluded, "So the case you've been secretively working on all day and the memo are about the same person."

After opening one beer, Horatio began to explain to Tim, using more or less the same words he spoke when talking to Alexx earlier, filling the younger man in on where Miranda was currently.

"I agree, it does not look good for the Feds, although we shouldn't be surprised there," Tim remarked as he stirred in the vegetables. "And unfortunately for whoever's on this killing spree, you left a lasting impression. They're not going to have a clue who they're messing with."

Horatio was a little taken aback. It was the second time someone had used that exact phrase today.

"It's okay, though," Tim added. "I know exactly why. It's the Caine charm, and half the time you don't even realize you're using it."

"Well, Monica left quite an impression on me as well," Horatio added softly, only realizing he had said the words out loud when Tim looked at him.

"Really?" Tim asked, curiosity peeked. "Memorable because of the nature of the case or—"

"Memorable because of who she was," Horatio answered. "The first time we met, she struck me as someone good, level headed, sorrowful," he revealed. "The second time, what I knew about her and what I observed…the pieces began to fall into place and…" Horatio trailed off only to shake his head. "…and I realized she was one of a kind."


	11. Chapter 11

Hey everybody. I'm really sorry it's been forever since I updated. I've had a death in the family, health issues with another family member, and a work schedule that has not been conducive to writing (if you want a list of excuses). This chapter was also pretty challenging to write, as what I had in my head and what was on paper never really added up. But I plan on having chapter 12 up in the next two weeks and maybe chapter 13, if everything at home settles down long enough…

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_**FLASHBACK**_

**August 1988**

**Downtown Miami**

In the week that had come and passed since Horatio had stood outside the Castenada residence, not much had happened in Miami. Beryl had glossed over the city, choosing to irritate more of the cities to the north instead. Another cyclone was heading their way. Earlier predictions were that the storm would be the third tropical storm of the season, but now everyone was predicting it would fizzle out into a rain storm before it reached land, knocking it down to nameless tropical depression.

More storms circled the Atlantic Coast, like a pack of wolves enclosing on a wounded animal. That was also an accurate description of several of Miami-Dade's cops.

The Herrera case had gone nowhere fast. The blood at the Castenada's was a type match to Herrera's and the gun used was probably the gun that Arturo Castenada had once owned. The crime lab could even prove Eduardo Herrera had been carried to his own car are the car had been driven to the marina only to be later dumped across town in an area down for its chop-shops.

But none of those pieces of evidence were the smoking gun, because of the lack of gun. The weapon in question, a Colt, reportedly had been sold after the Senior Castenada's conviction. The family even had the receipt still to prove it. Rafael Castenada's clothes had already been sent to the dry cleaners. Any evidence on them was long gone by the time the PD had gotten the warrant for them.

Of course, no one else who had stayed after was talking. All the other gentlemen had said that when they left, Herrera was still alive. No one could name a person who would want him dead. Some enemies they would name, sure; even some of the men that had stayed behind, but nobody with strong enough motives to kill Eduardo Herrera. And, of course, all them said there was no way Rafael Castenada would kill Herrera, that Eduardo had been like an uncle to Rafael, that he was the younger Castenada's trusted friend.

Horatio knew it wouldn't be the first time one family member had been killed by another.

The lack of evidence had brought their investigation to a halt, however. No murder weapon and no one talking had his boss cursing and crowing for another warrant for the Castenada place, but the judge argued that if they hadn't found it that first day, they weren't going to find it.

Waverly was convinced the murder had something to do cocaine, that Rafael was following in his father's footsteps, that Herrera was connected to the same drug ring as Arturo, although they couldn't prove it. Horatio didn't know what to think. He kept waiting for the evidence to tell him.

He knew how far the shooter had been standing when he shot Herrera, close enough he had gotten blood on this clothes. Gun powder would have been all over the cuff and the blow-back would have been all the upper and middle portion of the shirt.

For the thousandth time, Horatio looked up from the dress shirt Rafael Castenada supposedly wore the night of Eduardo Herrera's murder. Even looking at swatches of fabric under the microscope, he couldn't find a speck of either GSR or blood. Either Horatio needed to switch dry cleaners, or Rafael wasn't their murder. Or this couldn't possibly be the shirt he was wearing when he killed Herrera.

Horatio closed his eyes and stretched. He'd been going over the evidence all day, as requested by Waverly. It hadn't yielded anything that they didn't already know. He sighed. He hated this part of the job. Not the long hours or the need for detailed, close inspection, but running into a dead end.

"Are you're eyes crossed yet?" a man asked, and Horatio couldn't help but swing around, startled.

"Geez, Allendale, don't you know better than to sneak up on someone?" Horatio asked sarcastically.

The man in front of him had light, wavy, blonde hair cropped close and spritely green eyes sparkling with mischief, making him look much younger than his thirty years. Dressed in a dark pair of pants and a light blue shirt, a gun and badge on his left him, he grinned at Horatio from the doorway of the evidence room in a way that reminded the redhead of his younger brother Ray.

"Payback, CSI Caine," Joseph 'Joey' Allendale replied, smug, referring to the move Horatio had pulled on him in the lab a week before when they were down in the morgue. Horatio had Joey convinced the dead were talking to him thanks to the new radio system that was installed down there. "Still pouring over the evidence from the Castenada manor?"

"Waverly insists that I missed something," Horatio said, not letting his voice betray what he thought.

Nevertheless, he heard the tell-tale chuckle from his fellow CSI. "That's not what you think."

Joey Allendale didn't have as much experience on the police force as Horatio, but he was the lab's go to guy for everything to do with serology and genetics. A scientist first, Allendale had gotten his doctorate at the age of 24, and after three years of working at a medical lab upstate, had applied for a job at the crime lab as 'a change in pace'.

As far as most of MDPD was concerned, Joey was a rookie. The fact that he was scarily good at putting together the missing pieces of a crime scene only seemed to annoy the veterans of the force. Horatio thought it was great. Because he often caught what Horatio missed.

Joey was also a good source of information. He was constantly telling Horatio about the latest research in the forensics field, how the 'speculative' trace evidence was going to help them put more killers behind bars and they were going to match killers to their DNA strand, not just DNA type. To most cops on the force, it sounded like science fiction, but to Joey, it was his life.

"It's what I'm, pretending, to think," Horatio finally said.

"How long have you been staring at that shirt?" Allendale asked. "Long enough you should have bought it a drink hours ago, right?"

Horatio shook his head at the joke. Joey also had the oddest sense of humor. He liked to pull pranks and had already managed to get half the lab, Horatio included. Most people thought it was funny until it happened to them. That was one of the reasons Joey said he liked working with Horatio; he could take a joke, even when it was at his expense.

"Long enough to know there isn't a speck of blood on it."

"Well, that settle's it, then," Allendale said matter-of-factly. "You're taking a break."

Eyebrows raised, "Is that an order?"

"If it need be," Joey quipped. Horatio looked over at him in disbelief. According to their boss, this could be the biggest case of year. He _couldn't_ just _walk away_.

He was about to say so when Joey held up his finger. "No, don't recite that bullshit Waverly gave us. I remember well enough what he said: _'Castenada is guilty as hell. No one leaves until we prove it. So forget about any rendezvous' with your mistresses and kiss your wives goodbye. The next forty-eight hours you belong to me.'_" The southern drawl was dead on, causing Horatio to smirk when he otherwise wouldn't.

"As _you_ may recall, I was there too for that all-so-inspiring speech. Doing work like this was why I quit working for ASA. I started staring at slides and cell cultures until I swore cracking the genetic code wouldn't take as long as identifying cancer morphology. That, my friend, is no way to work. You need to step away from the problem for a solution to present itself."

Allendale leaned on the metal doorframe. "At least leave the room to get a cup of coffee. And—I mean—real coffee. Café Cubano. Not that pot of Everglade muck that is probably breeding seven kinds of micro organisms in it."

"Charming description there, Joe," Horatio admonished. One of these days, Joey was going to say the wrong thing in front of the right person and get himself fired.

"I could list all the possible organisms that would grow in something so acidic for you," Allendale replied. And Horatio knew he would, until he got his way.

"Not if you want me to go out for that coffee with you."

"Excellent. Then we're leaving right now. There's a little-hole-in-wall café just a three blocks north of here called La Paloma Blanca. Hands down, best coffee in the entire city. We can walk there, get a cup and clear our heads, then head back. We'll be gone half an hour, tops."

"Alright then." Horatio began carefully packing the evidence away, finally filing it all in the large cardboard box marked as EVIDENCE, Joey helping him.

That was another thing Horatio liked about Joey; he actually cared. He wasn't just a co-worker, but a friend. When Horatio had come to Miami a little over a year ago, Allendale had made it a point to get to know him, to invite him out for coffee or drinks after work, to introduce him to people Joey knew, to show him the lesser known parts of Miami to help him familiarize himself with the city. He genuinely wanted to make sure Horatio liked working in the lab and made new connections to put New York further and further behind him.

It stirred feelings in Horatio…thoughts he didn't have a clue how to deal with. Thoughts like that Joey was almost putting too much effort into getting to know him. But that was nonsense. Joey was a friend and follow officer and…his mind refused to follow that train of thought. It was ridiculous.

They stored the evidence in the evidence locker, securing the room upon exiting. They moved out into the precinct without saying a word, as the air was stifling with heat and sweat and tension. The Cuban community was starting to get up in arms about investigating the Castenada family again. Other community leaders, be they construction or political, were leaning on the department to start looking at another suspect, looking away, or dropping the 'hot potato' until the situation cooled off. But they could only follow the evidence. So everyone was feeling the heat of the Herrara murder investigation, and Horatio couldn't help but sense that, like the hurricane season, the real storm hadn't blown in.

The two CSIs made their way down the aisle of police desks when someone shouted for Joey.

"Allendale!"

The duo turned to see a man in his early forties with graying and thinning hair, lean face and a pale complexion despite the number of hours he spent in the sun, wearing a navy suit and a white dress shirt, get up from his desk.

"Sears," Joey replied without enthusiasm. Detective Jack Sears was as old-fashioned, no-nonsense as any cop Horatio had ever met. He believed in hard work, gut instinct and that just about everybody lied to him. He was dedicated to the job, more so than most, but he didn't take the CSIs seriously, believing only 'true' detective work put suspects behind bars. Which was why they both got a little apprehensive when he called on them; it was usually to berate them for ruling out his lead suspect.

"I have a few questions on the blood work you did on the Estes case," Sears told Joey. "I'm scheduled to testify tomorrow and I need you to go over the results with me today."

It wasn't quite asking, but it was better than Sears usual cracks and demeanor. Maybe their work was being appreciated after all?

Joey turned to Horatio. "Do me a favor, and bring me back that cup of coffee?"

"Three blocks north, you said?"

"Between a pet store and ice cream shop. You can't miss it."

"Alright. I'll see you in a bit."

Horatio went through the doors of the MDPD, feeling just a little bit…awkward. It was a feeling he thought he had grown out of, and yet it had struck him at the most inopportune times since he had been in Miami. He didn't feel like a stranger in his own skin like he had as a teenager; now he just felt like a stranger in a place that almost existed in a different world, where the people spoke a language of their own, had rules and customs the natives didn't dare share with outsiders. He was in a place he would never be able to call home.

Of course, New York had its own merger of cultures. Brooklyn had generations of Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean, Japanese, Indian, Czech, Polish, Greek, Italian, African, Hungarian, Romanian, Arabic families living, working in its borough. Different holidays, different behaviors, different words. He remembered sitting with Ray at one of the outside tables of the restaurant where his mother worked, playing a game of inventing what the native Greek and Italian employees were saying to each other. Or what the owner of Chinese restaurant across the street were 'really' saying when he yelled at his nephews.

For some reason, the differences that delighted him in New York had failed to in Miami. It was as if Miami's people were too loud, the words too sharp and impassioned; the music designed to help the people forget the murdering in the streets and to drown out the screams. The people played in the sun, never acknowledging the shadows. The lack of balance left him off center.

It was while musing on the subject, walking down the stair of the precinct, when he saw her. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him; after all, he had spent most of his week on the Castenada case; but sure enough, it was her. The clothes were different—a pair of dusty yellow slacks with a crème colored blouse—and her hair was pulled into a braid. Yet the eyes that spotted him in the same moment were the same mysterious shade and had the same tranquil scrutiny to them.

Ms. Castenada was standing across the street from the police department, tapping her foot on the ground in a manner that betrayed her nervousness. Her hands couldn't settle, as she went from gripping her arms to swaying at her hips. If he had to guess, he would have said she looked indecisive.

When their eyes met, they both seemed to freeze simultaneously. There was a moment—that felt like an eternity—when he was sure he was falling, so suddenly was he struck with something akin to vertigo. His stomach clinched and he wondered if his face showed his surprise.

He had no clue why she was here, but it seemed when the moment was over, her mind was made up. And she was making her way over to him.

His feet, however, were rooted on the spot.

"Hello, Detective Caine," she said in greeting. "I hope it is okay that I'm here."

"Of course it's okay," he said even though he wasn't a sure he wasn't about to be breaking some unwritten rule. But she was here, and reason said it had something to do with their case. He wouldn't find out what until he took a risk. "What can I help you with, Ms. Castenada?"

She looked around the area outside of the precinct, as if to make sure no one was watching.

"Can we—could I—talk to you, for a bit, some place—well, _away_, from here?"

He found himself nodding before he realized it. "Actually, a friend recommended this coffee shop not to far from here. I was just going to get a cup. How about we talk there?"

Smiling, the confidence she had standing at the doorway of the Castenada's waiting room back, she nodded. "That sounds perfect."

Horatio lead the way and yet made sure they kept side by side. At every corner, before they crossed the street, he briefly glanced at the street signs, orienting himself.

Ms. Castenada lightly chuckled. He looked to see what she found so amusing and discovered her eyes on him.

"You're still getting use to Miami, aren't ya?" Horatio's eyes shot downward as the blush swept across his face. He hoped she'd mistake the reaction for the heat.

"I'd rather not get you lost," he replied as matter-of-factly he could muster. Her grin softened.

"Well, yes. That would not be for the best, but if we did get lost, it could be worse area than near a police precinct," she mused. "The last time I got lost in Miami, it was definitely in a neighborhood that had seen better days and I definitely didn't have a handsome cop as tour guide and a body guard."

Horatio started blushing for an entirely different reason then. Ms. Castenada didn't notice.

"So where are you from originally?" she asked.

"New York." That was no big secret and an innocent enough question he didn't mind answering it.

"Which borough?"

That threw him for a second. He hadn't said he was from the city.

"I went to college in New York," she explained. "Can't always distinguish one district from another, but I know the accent when I hear it."

So he had been correct earlier. She had lived in NYC, and long enough to pick up a slight accent.

"We moved around a lot when I was growing up," Horatio answered. "But Queens and Brooklyn mostly. Which school did you go to?" Most people knew about New York University and Columbia, but there were numerous colleges within and just outside the five boroughs.

"I went to St. John's University," she told him. "Not my first choice, but I got a scholarship to attend there. Best four years possible, though not the easiest."

The traffic cleared enough for the two of them to cross, reaching their destination. Four small, brick buildings sat isolated from the rest of the commercial stretch. Palmettos lined the sidewalk, providing shade for a few tables outside. The shop furthermost out was a pet store. The tune of "How much is that doggy in the window?" could be heard from across the street, almost loud enough to drown out the music filtering out from the ice cream parlor two doors down. And, yes, there was a café in between the two. It wasn't until he was almost underneath the wooden sign that he could read the script of "La Paloma Blanca" with the image of a dove carved beneath the lettering.

He opened the door for her. She thanked him before crossing the threshold.

The door closed behind him, hitting the wind chime hanging just above it. After that, the first thing he noticed was the silence. Fans blew overhead, a constant hum and swish, but otherwise, the atmosphere was peaceful. The second, was that it was much cooler compared to outdoors, despite the lack of air conditioning in sight. On the turquoise walls were drawings of cathedrals and fountains, trees and birds in flight. The lights were kept low, giving a sense of intimacy in the small room.

Tables were placed with just enough aisle space for servers to move around. A counter with a register and the only employee in sight was situated at the back. All the furniture was done in a cherry finish.

A few patrons were sipping at their cups of coffee, the conversation between them trickling low or dying off all together as they took in the two redheads. Horatio internally sighed. He hated being the center of attention—a lifetime of living in an abusive home had taught him that. He couldn't help but wonder if it was his physique that always made people stare or if something about his mannerisms constantly screamed cop, and not in a way that garnered respect.

He didn't know how that was possible, though. He'd trained to be anyone he needed to be on the street, be that drug dealer or petty thief. It was why his undercover op in Narcotics a couple of years ago had gone down so well. It wasn't like he had lost the talent since then, either.

Ms. Castenada just smile and slightly waved her hand, as if to tell the staring eyes they were caught and that the pair meant no harm.

A nod from the man at the register told them they could seat where they liked. Conversation slowly picked up as the two made their way to a table a little removed from the others, but not suspiciously so. Horatio pulled out the chair for Ms. Castenada first. With a slight blush, she took it.

Minutes later, they had ordered their coffee, Castenada's in fluent Spanish and his in English.

When everything was settled, Ms. Castenada said, "This is a neat little hole-in-the-wall."

"As I said, I friend recommended it," Horatio said. "He's made it a point to find all the best kept secrets in town."

"I remember doing that," she commented wistfully. "In New York, my roommates and I would randomly get off the subway and check what shops and clubs there were. Not the safest thing to do, even if the three of us were always together, but one of my roommates, Lianne, was determined to take the city by storm. She tried to convince me not to be sacred. 'The Big Apple can't be more dangerous than South Philly' and all that. 'Course, that's all about what part of South Philly you're yakking about. After four years, though, we had a list of the best pizza parlors and pop stands, and no one dared say we were wrong."

It was the lapse into a colloquialism that had his mind piecing together where he'd heard that accent before.

"You're originally from Pennsylvania," he said. "I could pick out the Queens before, but now I can hear the Pennsylvania Dutch."

She blushed as she pursed her lips. "Yep. That's me. Pennsylvania country girl. Thought I'd lost the accent over the years. I guess I'm just that nervous."

He chose to ignore the nervous comment. He knew Ms. Castenada had come to him for a purpose, but he wasn't going to pry the answer out if he didn't have to. He was set on building a repoir with her. Or, at least, that is what he was telling himself.

"It's only when you say certain words that you give your roots away," he assured. "But it sounds like quite a story you have. You'll have to tell me how a 'Pennsylvania country girl' ends up married to one of the most successful contractors in Miami."

"Well, it's like any rags to riches story," she replied, half teasing and half…loathing, he almost wanted to say. "My father was a farmer and my mother worked along side him. I grew up milking cows and plowing corn with my two brothers. We did everything we could to pinch the pennies until my mom got sick. Then I went to live with my aunt in the city.

I did really well in school and we're Catholic so, I got a scholarship to go even farther away from home, and I took it. I studied mathematics and accounting. What the scholarship didn't cover I made up in waitressing where I—somehow—managed to catch the eye of the man I'm now married to."

She sighed. "And when his father went to prison, as much as Rafael detested the idea of taking over his father's firm, he knew he had no choice. So we moved down here. The rest, as they say of history, is matter of interpretation. "

Ms. Castenada smiled then, but it didn't reach her eyes. He knew there was more to the tale she had weaved and, yet again, didn't press.

"Why math?" He was genuinely curious. Not just because it was a subject most detested, but also because it could give him further insight into her.

The young man that had waited on them came back with their cups, sitting them down beside them as well as a small pitcher of milk a cup of sugar cubes. They thanked him and went about fixing their coffee; he adding a cube of sugar and just a touch of milk while she added two cubes.

"Math and I just clicked," she answered. "Always have. I remember my classmates struggling over problems that I could solve without having to write the numbers down. It was almost like math was a secret language and I was the only native speaker in the room. And, as much as I hate to boast, I can only remember a few occasions when I struggled with a formula or got one wrong. I could feel when an answer to an equation wasn't right. Someone once said I had a 'natural affinity' for math."

Her eyes lit up with a passion that he hadn't seen before, her voice lifting with every word. She smiled as took a moment to drink her coffee. "Mmmm. This is the best coffee I've had, ever."

He had to agree, surprising so, though he knew he shouldn't have been. Joey had remarked that he could identify the region where the coffee grounds had come from solely on taste of the coffee so much of a connoisseur he was.

She took another sip before continuing. "The simple answer is, after growing up poor, I swore I wasn't going to live the rest of my life that way. And I thought the easiest way of doing that is going in the business of making and keeping money, which is all what accounting really is. Before that, it was a toss up between Art and English, but I knew no one was going to pay me to read Shakespeare and working in a museum sounded so boring."

He knew then without asking that the waiting room where he'd interviewed her had been her room, her retreat from the rest of the mansion, and she had sent them in because she had felt the most comfortable there. The question was, why did someone who was so confident need that extra advantage?

"So, now that you know my story, I could ask you the same: how does an honest, New York cop end up a 'crime scene investigator' in a shady city like Miami, Detective?"

Horatio took a moment to compose his reply, his mind flooded with images. He and Ray sitting in a booth while his mother waitressed when he was thirteen. His father coming home, drunk. His father pinning his mother against the kitchen wall, screaming at her as he twisted her wrist to the point of breaking, until Horatio stepped in, drawing the attention to himself. Ray watching their father beat him through the crack through the door and frame of their bedroom. He helping his mother packed the things she valued, checking on Ray as to how much he packed. Horatio stopping by the new apartment for lunch to find his mother's blood splattered across the wall; her face unrecognizable; her body twisted in an unnatural position; his father standing over her body, his eyes filled with an insatiable rage. Meeting Jessica at the bar weeks after the funeral, wanting to drown his sorrows. Him proposing to her outside that bar months later, her smiling wide as she let him slip on the engagement band. The same band she left behind, tucked in the envelope along with the note saying that after two years, she wanted out; that the undercover job had broken her and the only reason she had stayed so long was to make sure Ray had someone he could count on to be at home.

"I started out a beat cop, but the more I learned on the street, the more I wanted to learn how the evidence we gathered was actually processed, what other ways to gather facts there were and how science could assure guilt and innocence more than a desperate confession ever could. I went back to school to understand forensics, but New York already had an established criminalist lab. There's a long waiting list for getting a position on any of shifts. Miami had only recently found the funds for a lab, but they hadn't found all their personal yet. I put in an application more hoping that I would be accepted than anything else, and when I got the call…It was an opportunity I couldn't turn down."

"Did you always want to be a police officer?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"No," he couldn't help but chuckle. "For the longest time, I wanted to be a firefighter." Castenada just grinned. "What?"

She just shook her head. "I just realized—well, I mean, I thought before, but now I'm sure—I can trust you."

A little shocked, Horatio began, "Ms. Castenada—"

"Please call me Monica," she interrupted. "If I'm going to say what I think I'm going to say, then you should at least be able to call me by my first name."

"Monica," he amended, the name strolling of his tongue with an ease no other had. "You came to talk to me, to tell me something important...something about Eduardo Herrera's murder."

Her deep sigh bordered on a shudder. She focused on her coffee, focused on it long enough that Horatio had thought he'd shut her down for good. Then she started talking.

"I remember looking at the clock before I went to bed that night. Not even in college did I know what 3:30 in the morning looked like. I remembered getting dressed for bed and I swore I must have fallen asleep a minute after I climbed in and yet…I woke not long after. I looked at the clock again. It was 4:11." She looked him straight in the eyes. "I have no clue why I woke up then. I just know that after…not long after, a bunch of cars left. Then another car left much later and by 4:40 it was all quiet again and…" Monica closed her eyes for a moment, biting her lip. "…and Rafael didn't come to bed until 6."

As she swallowed, he realized how hard it was for her to say that. That even though she felt the need to do 'the right thing' that she still considered what she was doing as a betrayal. If anyone else had gone with Lieutenant Waverly that day, the case would never had gone anywhere after the meeting in the reception room.

But then there was more. "One of our employees working that night, Felix Guevara, hasn't been to work in a week. But that's normal. Well—I mean—it's normal in that sometimes people don't come in for a week. A child becomes ill or someone gets hurt or there's a death in the family. That kind of thing comes in waves, though. Within a week, half the kitchen staff will get the flu or a couple of the groundskeepers will get hurt on the same project. They just let us know what's happening and we respect that they need the time off."

"But he's the only one and he hasn't called in," Horatio concluded.

"All of it probably means nothing. _All_ of it. I mean—this is not _Hamlet_. Rafael wouldn't harm _anyone_, nevermind someone who he considers family. There are no secret plots or assassinations. Sure, Eduardo and Rafael had been arguing a lot lately, but we are in a recession. Sections of business are slowing down; when things don't go according to plan, tempers flare. But that happens everywhere to everybody; there's nothing sinister about it."

Horatio decided that she was equally trying to convince herself as much as him. "Then what has you convinced something _is_ going on?"

Monica swung her braid back over her shoulder where it had fallen when she had leaned forward. "Are you married, Detective?"

"Excuse me?" It seemed like just when he got comfortable, she startled Horatio again.

"I don't want to assume anything anymore, you see, and I know law enforcement officials don't always wear a wedding band. I've been told it can interfere with the job, though the person who said that never bothered to explain what he meant."

Horatio was once again hit with the memory of curly, dark hair and hazel eyes, peach lips and a sardonic smile.

"I was once," he curtly replied, swallowing down the anger and guilt once again. The divorce had been final months before he headed to Miami, and yet the wound was sometimes as fresh as the night he found that note.

"Then you know what it's like to know someone else better than you know yourself," Monica stated, "and that, that kind of relationship depends not just on love to flourish, but trust."

He had to nod in agreement. He had never let Jessica get as close to him as she wanted, kept her from knowing about his undercover work in order to protect her. Yet she had seen it as a lack of trust, as a means of shutting her out until she couldn't take it anymore.

"Rafael has done things this past week that he never does. He's lied, again and again, and when I call him on it, he pretends he doesn't know what I'm talking about. He's shut me out and I can't figure out why. If he was nervous about any bigoted cops, he would just call up any number of our friends from New York and have a horde of lawyers down here in an instant, but he hasn't. And he's not—"she paused as she thought of the right words—"he's not grieving the way someone normally grieves, either. He's known Eduardo Herrera since he was a little boy. He's—he was—like an uncle to him. Eduardo has been lending Rafael a hand since the moment we came to Miami. And yet, Rafael's thinking of not even attending the funeral? I mean, does that sound like someone who is behaving like an emotionally balanced adult to you?"

She leaned back in her seat, her arms trembling before she crossed them. Monica was as close to unraveling as he had yet seen her be. It unnerved him that someone could do that to this woman—someone battled adversity to get where she was. That he in fact had helped bring her to this point.

Slowly, he reached across the table and took her hand. "You're confused. You're scared. You're angry. And you have every right to be.'

Monica let out the breath she had been holding. "Just please tell me you'll help me find out what's going on."

"That, Monica, I can promise you."

"Thank you, Detective."

"Horatio," he said before he realized it.

She quirked her lips. "Thank you, Horatio."

"Now," he said, so he could have just what he needed to help all of them, "what is Felix Guevarra's address?"

They left La Paloma Blanca some time later, agreeing to meet at the café in three days if they didn't encounter each other sooner. Horatio walked back to the crime lab after escorting Monica to the municipal parking lot where she had parked her car. He had the sinking sensation that Waverly may be right after all; that either Castenada or his surrogate uncle had crossed a line that led to the latter man's death; that Monica had woken because of the gunshot; that the only other person who might know where that gun was who just might talk to them, given the right incentive, was AWOL.

He walked back into the layout room he had left some time ago, carrying a large cup of café Cubano, Joey already ahead of him.

"You know, you've been gone for over an hour," Joey commented, not looking up from the shirt he was examining. In fact, it was the same shirt Horatio had been examining when Joey had found him initially.

No, Horatio hadn't known he had been gone that long, as he looked over his shoulder at the clock on the wall to confirm. He must have gotten carried away talking to Monica more so than he thought.

"Waverly been lookin' for you, but don't worry, I covered for you."

"Well good, I need to talk to him," Horatio said as he sat the coffee down in Joey's line of sight. "I think I've got a lead on the Herrera case."

"Really? That's great! I've think I've got something that gonna make him think it's the fourth of July," Joey said.

"Oh, yeah? What's that?" Horatio eyed curiously. Again, Joey was notorious for finding what others missed.

"Well, I thought, with all the people that wear suits around here and spill coffee on them, someone would have thought of it. And, well, of course you being a former Narco cop, you would have thought of the other thing. But if you had, you would have found what I found."

Horatio just looked at him.

"Okay, well, I actually discovered it by accident, swiping the wrong reagent, but it does lend proof to Waverly's accusations."

"I'm all ears Joe." Allendale's smile was as bright and sarcastic as the Miami sun.

"I realized there was no way this was the shirt that Rafael Castenada could have worn if he was anywhere near Herrera when he was shot. The dry cleaning probably would have baked the blood in even if it washed away the gun powder residue."

"So?"

"This can't be the shirt he was wearing, if he's our killer."

"How does that help us?"

"Well, he might have switched shirts on us, probably has a dozen shirts just like this one, so no one, even his wife, would be none the wiser" Joey explained. "But he did not switch his ties." The other man suddenly held up a string of cloth. A section of the tip was removed, revealing a red stain.

"That's blood spatter," Horatio said.

"Oh, there's more than that. That reagent I laid on my swab by accident, it turns color in the presence of certain things. Mainly blue."

The wheels turned in Horatio's brain. "His shirt has—"

"I know what dry cleaning does to blood," said the serology expert, "but I had no clue what it did for cocaine."

_**END FLASHBACK**_

* * *

"Our case unfolded from a dead end after that meeting. Between Joey and Monica, we were set on the road to crack the case," Horatio finished, his eyes focused suddenly on the beer bottle in his hand. Tim had finished fixing the stir fry awhile back and had actually served them. Horatio hadn't eaten a lot because he'd been talking.

Speed, on the other hand…half of the food on the plate was gone. The remaining bits…let's just say, he had lost his appetite. Or that he felt like he had just ingested battery acid.

It wasn't that Tim didn't know Horatio had a past; everybody had one. It wasn't like Tim had expected there to be no other lovers before him; with the Caine charm, the chivalrous nature, the intensity Horatio took to everything, it was a wonder why his lover was on the market when they had gotten together.

With Yelina around, Tim had forced himself to learn to separate the professional and the personal. To not get upset with the tension Yelina tried to create with his lover, to try to see her side of things instead of figuring her for a manipulative bitch like many of the other women he had come across. Not that he was always great at it. But he told himself it was practice for when an actual old flame of H's walked through the Crime Lab doors, not just a would-be one.

Nothing, however, had prepared him for the emotional knife to his heart. He needed to think of something to say, and fast, because in a moment, Horatio's now glassy eyes were going to focus on him, and that would be bad. At this moment, Horatio would read him like any suspect and know what was wrong.

Horatio had spoken about Joey and Monica in the same tone he spoke of Ray Jr. and the team. There was pride and loyalty, friendship and awe. For awhile, Horatio of spoke of the two in the same inflection, something shifted towards the end of his tale with Monica. Something Tim got to see almost everyday in his lover's eyes and yet only heard when his name was spoken a certain way, or whispered above him when Horatio thought Tim was asleep.

Love. Horatio loved Monica. Okay, yeah, Horatio loved Yelina and Susie, even when he was frustrated with one of them, cared deeply for Calleigh, loved Madison and Ray Jr. But better yet, he had been _in love _with her. _Still_ was, in a way, even though she was now obviously dead. Had obviously moved on and had a child with another man.

Nothing had prepared Tim for that. That's why his stomach was threatening to spew and he was at a loss for words.


	12. Chapter 12

Calleigh and Eric found their way over to Fleur de Lis after grabbing a bite to eat at a taco stand not too far from the boardwalk. The Fleur de Lis was like any upscale restaurant in Miami; it was near a beach. South Beach, to be exact. The restaurant catered to the affluent, the famous, the connected. Only a few tables were set aside for visiting tourists with the money to spend, as you really had to have made reservations weeks, if not months, in advance.

Eric had only been in the place once before, for a wedding rehearsal dinner party of one of his frat buddies, three years ago. It was more or less how he remembered. Well…mostly he remembered flirting with the bridesmaid that had seated next to him, which was not the bridesmaid he had to walk down the aisle the next day. That had definitely got some dirty looks sent his way, although it wasn't until after the wedding ceremony that he realized the women were competing for his attention. They had been _way_ _too_ determined to be the next one throwing a wedding in their little clique of friends.

But he clearly recalled being disgusted and nearly blinded with the decadence of the place, much the same way he had felt about the decorations going up at the church and those in the reception hall. Large mirrors adorned every other wall panel and the ceiling in between the golden chandeliers. The mirror less panels were a rich, rosey shade of pink with a strip about a foot wide of a layered, textured, gold and cream fleur de lis pattern going down the center of it. The trim was gold plated. The carpet was a color merged from pink and white that looked nice until you remembered the cotton candy your nephew threw up after riding the swings at Disney World was the exact same shade.

The bride-to-be had told him the place was supposed to have a Versailles theme. Actually, the entire wedding had something French themed. Even the damn stripper at the bachelor party had come in wearing a French maid outfit. Really, Eric would have just blown off the place—the whole wedding—and eloped, gone seen the real thing in France. And he was raised to believe that a marriage should be held in a church, surrounded by God and family, and to be a huge orchestrated deal. Of course, the newly married couple had their honeymoon in Paris.

Eric had been sick of pink and gold and tuxes and anything French for weeks after. The only good think that had happened to Eric associated with the restaurant was the three phone numbers he had gotten and an appreciation for his sister Antonia's traditional white wedding when he found himself walking another bridesmaid down the aisle two months later.

They approached the hostess stand, a white, wooden pew accented in gold, side by side. The hostess—blond with pale blond highlights pulled up with chopsticks, blue-eyed, petite, early 20s, dressed in a little, and he meant_ little_, black dress—didn't bother to hide the fact she looked them over and found them grossly underdressed.

"_Bonjour_! May I help you?" The hostess didn't wear a name tag. Eric wondered if it would have given her real name or the French version.

Calleigh's smile was slightly more cheerful. "I sure hope so. I'm CSI Calleigh Duquense with the Miami-Dade Police"—she flashed her badge—"and this is CSI Eric Delko. Were you by chance working last evening, Ms—?"

"Annabel, Annabel Gailard. I was. I'm the weekday hostess. Wwwhy?"

Eric flipped out the picture of Claymore they had gotten from the DMV. "Do you recognize him from last night's guests?" Annabel peered at the paper, her gold, diamond drop necklace falling out to slide on into the pew top as she did.

"Yeah, I do. Is he dead?" Eric pulled the photo back.

"Now why would you ask that?" Calleigh asked.

"Because the last time I saw, he was chasing after his wife, who was pissed enough to kill," Annabel answered. "Believe me, I know what that kind of pissed is."

Eric smirked, despite himself. Growing up with three older sisters had taught him that any woman could be mad enough to kill. "Care to elaborate?"

Annabel rolled her eyes. "Look. I don't know what he said, only that it was the wrong thing to say. I'm the hostess, not their waitress. Dr. Claymore checked in here with a woman that he said was his wife. I got them to their table. I left. Then later, I hear yelling coming from inside. I told one of the waiters to doing something about it. The next thing I know, the woman's storming out of here when I'm trying to escort someone else in, cussing her head off, and he's not too far behind. If you want to know more, ask anybody who waiting tables. They made a huge scene, pissed off the management big time, and aren't allowed back here again."

"Describe her," Calleigh commanded politely.

"Bleach blonde, curly, thirties, tan and missing the botox, 5'5", wearing some white Vera Wang piece suit, a matching silk wrap, and a Gucci bag from last season's line," Annabel answered matter-of-factly.

"You remember everyone you meet that well, Ms. Gailard?" Eric couldn't help but remark. He managed to keep the snide out of it at the last minute. Man, was Speed starting to rub off on him, and not in a good way. Girls like Annabel were the kind he use to date, not that she was anything compared to Calleigh. At least one of the CSIs should still be in touch with that crowd.

"Paying close attention to what kind of people come to _La Fleur_ is part of my job description," Annabel replied simply, "and after the scene that woman made during the dinner rush, you bet management would be pissed if I didn't remember her."

"And when's the dinner rush?" Calleigh directed the hostess's attention back to her.

"Around 7 is when it starts. And before you even ask, their reservation was for 6:30 and they were just a little late. Excuse me." She had them step to the side as two couples came in. The men were in suits while one of the women wore a gown and the other some Art Deco piece. Eric thought Calleigh in overalls dumpster diving looked better than either of them.

They waited for Annabel to escort the couples to their table, Calleigh whispering to him that she was sure she had seen one of the women in _Vogue_ last month. Eric noted that he thought one of the guys played for the Miami Dolphins.

Within minutes, Annabel was back, a little annoyed they were still there. "Anything else I can do for you two?"

"We're going to need to talk to some of the wait staff that was here last night," Calleigh answered.

"It's the dinner rush hour!"

"We'll be out of here in no time," Eric said to pacify. "We just need five minutes."

"It's that or come back when most of your clients are leaving with a couple of patrol officers to help us interview everyone who was working last night," Calleigh added.

It only took a second for her to decide. "Fine. But you have to be discrete."

Twenty minutes later, Eric and Calleigh left La Fleur de Lis with two slices of Devil's Food cake in a fancy, Styrofoam boxes and another piece of the puzzle.

"Claymore's alibi doesn't hold up," Calleigh said.

"And even with yesterday's traffic, he had plenty of time to make it back to the office," Eric calculated.

"The valet said they showed up in two separate cars."

"So now the question is…"

"Which one of them showed up at the office first," Calleigh finished. "And I think Alexx might have answered that for us already."

***********************

He tasted the chocolate on her lips, mixed with the spice from the sauce from the tacos, and something purely Calleigh that reminded him of smoke and brandy. God, he couldn't get enough of her. If he could taste her forever, it still wouldn't be enough.

Calleigh's lips parted, the heat infusing with his overwhelmed senses as he sank into her. Her arms wrapped tight around his neck as her legs parted, letting him settle between them. She teased him with her tongue while Eric teased her with his hands, one gently kneading her breast as the other flipped over the closure of her pants and drew the zipper slowly down.

They broke away just long enough for both of them to slip off their pants, their shirts long gone, and moved further up her bed. Calleigh's bedroom was not what Eric had imagined, but it was totally her. The curtains and the carpet were a sapphire blue while the bedspread was a soft butterscotch, the walls just noticeably yellow. A nice cherry trim hugged the walls, something he had seen briefly the night before. In the early morning, the sun rising set a warm glow to the room that when his arms had been wrapped around Calleigh, made him feel whole.

_I will meet you in some place_

_Where the light lends itself to soft repose_

_I will let you undress me_

_But I warn you, _

_I have thorns like any rose_

Eric slowly let go of her lips and trailed down to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Last night had been an explosion of passion and anticipation. He had let Calleigh lead every step of the way, wanting her enough to let her have the control he'd learned over the past months she needed as much as some people needed to breathe. But now, he wanted to explore her, to see for himself what made her gasp and moan and bite her lips to keep all the noises in.

Calleigh's hands drifted down his back, finally settling on his hips. She had managed to edge the fabric over his hips before he caught her.

Holding her hands over her head, Eric said, "Ah na, I don't think so. You got your desert. I want mine." He spotted the mischievousness in her green eyes before she rolled them dramatically, a smile spreading across her face.

"Well just so you know, if you tickle me, you'll start a war you won't be able to finish," Calleigh said teasingly.

"Okay, no tickling. But I promise you, you'll be squirming for another reason," he answered huskily.

"That confident, aren't we?"

Eyebrows raised, "You doubt me?"

Charm, seductive humor, passion. Every relationship Calleigh had been in had a foundation of these elements, but with Eric, there was something different: friendship. She had seen past some of those layers of outward persona to the inner person, and it was that Eric she already trusted with her life. The reason she had fallen for him. Shouldn't she be able to trust him with another piece of her heart?

_And you could hurt me _

_With your bare hands_

_You could hurt me using the sharp end_

_Of what you say_

_But I am lost to you now_

_There's no amount of reason _

_To save me_

Calleigh consciously relaxed her arms. "I'm gonna let you prove it."

With a glint of mischievousness in his own chocolate brown eyes, Eric continued his exploration.

Calleigh's breath hitched when his tongue rasped over her nipples, paying equal attention to each breast, leaving them harden tips before traveling down the valley between them. He found that spot just above her left hip that always sent sparks of pleasure through her body. He grazed her belly button, causing her hips to buckle. Her skin was tingling, nearly sizzling as she continued to let Eric map out her body, her hot spots just the right of aching.

His hands massaged the muscles of her thighs and calves before returning to the lacey cotton underwear that was slick with her juices. Two fingers slid under the garment and curled when they reached her core, parting enflamed folds but going no deeper. Eric's fingers hovered there, brushing her nub lightly.

It took about a minute for Calleigh to conclude that he wasn't going to press further without some encouragement.

"_ERIC_." It was demand and plea and came out as breathy as it did loud. His response was a chuckle that was all masculine and annoying and Calleigh was so ready to teach him a thing or two about teasing, but that would require moving, so she just glared at him instead.

"Hey! You got to savor your desert. So should I." She then watched as he slowly removed his fingers and brought them to his mouth before licking them. Languidly. Making sure to get every drop. "_Mmm_. So good. Can I have more?"

She stripped off her underwear faster than she ever loaded her gun so he could lower his head between her thighs. Her fingers slipped into the short, coarse, dark locks of his hair as his tongue slid through the folds and began to lick. Stroke. Taste. Until she was shuddering.

Eric's hands went to her hips to hold her in place. Not tight enough to leave a bruise, but just barely. Electricity pulsed through her, her stomach tightening as she prepared to explode from pleasure. But it wasn't enough to bring her over the edge. Not yet.

Her skin was so sensitive, she could feel the perspiration beaded on it. Could feel wherever Eric touched her with the intensity of a barreling freight train. No one before had her so aroused, learned her body so quickly. God, all he had to do was put a little more pressure…

God, Eric couldn't believe it. That he was seeing Calleigh like this. Her skin glowing, her breath coming out in short gasps, her hands wrapped around the headboard, her eyes focused on him as if she was about to devour him. There weren't words to describe how happy he was that he was bringing her such pleasure, how _turned on he was_ just watching her.

He drew her clit into his mouth again, and this time he meant business. He sucked it and sucked. Until she was ripped with a cataclysm of pleasure that had her shouting his name.

Calleigh didn't know exactly when she came back into her body, but when she did, Eric was crawling up to bed to lie beside her. His grin widen when their eyes met.

"So tell me, did I prove it?"

Calleigh blinked, feigning ignorance. "What?"

Eric shook his head, chuckling. He already knew that look. It told him more things than words ever could, although words on occasion would be nice.

Slowly but steadily, she smiled. She reached for him, slowly kissing him. "Give me a minute and _I'll _be the one showing you what squirming is."

There was a quiet chuckle. "I think I could become addicted to this." Turning down the covers, she slipped under and invited Eric to join her. "To you."

She turned to her side and Eric moved to hold her against his chest, his arms wrapped snuggly around her, the scent of her filling his nose.

"Stay the night," she asked drowsily. Just like she had asked the night before. And like the night before, Eric couldn't think of a better place to be.

* * *

The lyrics are from a Jewel song, "Break Me". I found parts of this chapter harder to write than expected (probably because I started in Eric's POV. Still not comfortable writing him yet) and found myself listening to " love " songs for inspiration. Just giving credit where credit's due...


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's notes:** Hey everyone. Again I apologize for not updating sooner. Nothing has gone as planned since March and I really wanted to make this chapter longer. But I want to thank **EVERYONE** who put this story on their alerts!!! You really have no idea how humbled I am that you like the story.

HoratioCraver101—glad you love it. Hopefully you'll like what's going to come next too!

Dollydarwloo—yes, there is a sequel planned, and at least another story after that outlined. I'm thinking of starting a series, which is scary. But I've also just created an AU for the season 3 with just this story, so I kinda have to follow up on that! I also have three other non-related CSI Miami stories in the beginning stages. I'm actually looking for someone to collaborate with. So if anyone's interested, just let me know.

Not beta'd, as usual. (Any glaring mistakes, let me know :) If anyone wants that job, too…

* * *

_People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them—_**James A. Baldwin**

Alexx peeked one more time into each bedroom on the hall. While Jamie and Bryan both had later bedtimes in the summer, they had crashed early tonight, probably due to the fact they had gotten up at 5:30 that morning. Peter had taken the kids sea fishing and then to the beach. They had spent all day playing in the sun, only to come back home to play soccer for several hours with their new friend Miranda.

Alexx spared another moment to look on her daughter Jamie who, as usual this time of year, had kicked off all the covers and sheets on her bed, and actually had her feet on her pillow and her head positioned at the footboard, her arms flung away from her sides. Bryan ironically had been in a similar pose, but with his head on his pillow and with earphones on, the CD player beside him still going. She had shut it off and taken the earphones out, sitting the player out of the way on the dresser before leaving.

She closed the door quietly as possible, and moved to the third and final room on her list tonight. She had set Miranda up in the guest bedroom after buying the teenager some clothes for the next few days and letting her take a shower. Miranda had insisted on being told how much it had cost in order to pay Alexx back at a later date, but the medical examiner had been equally insistent that she not worry about it.

Alexx had explained the situation to her husband, and the legal ambiguity involved, when he had brought the kids home. He hadn't been happy at first, worried about the danger that may be posed to the kids. He was finding it hard to believe that there wasn't a different way to handle the situation, or that someone so innocent could end up in so much trouble. Then he'd met Miranda, talked to her.

Over grilled hot dogs, Miranda, Bryan and Jamie had bonded over their love of soccer and even Peter and Alexx had played a game or two with them. Afterwards, Alexx could tell that the teenager had actually managed to relax a bit, but her eyes were blurry with exhaustion. It wasn't hard to convince everyone to head off to bed.

She opened the door to the guest bedroom, the doorknob creaking slightly, and peeked in. The teen laid on top of the covers in the fetal position, still in her daywear, the pajamas Alexx had bought sitting on the dresser. The girl even had her shoes on. Her feet were angled to hang off the edge of the bed. Having known Miranda for only half a day, the medical examiner guessed she'd done it so not to get dirt on the bed.

Alexx smiled sadly, shaking her head. Horatio had his work cut out for him and he didn't even know it yet.

She had told Miranda that if the girl wanted to talk to her about what happened to her mother, to talk about anything, Alexx was available. Miranda had thanked her, but Alexx doubted the teen would take her up on her offer. Nor was she surprised the girl had dressed to bolt. Despite the relaxed afternoon the Woods family had, Miranda had been fidgety, observing the neighborhood with more than curiosity. The way she had stood at the window, looking out on the Miami suburb when Peter and the kids had shown up, taking them in detail by detail before they had entered the house, had reminded the medical examiner of another redhead.

Silently, Alexx entered the room and went to the bed. With practiced ease, she carefully removed the tennis shoes and set them near the foot of the bed before moving Miranda's feet on the bed. Taking the jeans off would cause more problems than leaving them, so Alexx settled for slipping on the pajama top. The girl hadn't stirred when Alexx finished, telling her exactly how tired Miranda had to have been.

She left the way she came, going to the bedroom to retrieve a cell phone. Now that all the children under her roof were taken care of, she called the one who wasn't. After all, it was his world that was about to be turned upside down, too.

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

Tim growled at his cell phone when it rang. It couldn't be Dispatch because Horatio's hadn't rung yet, but it didn't mean it had to be good. With the night he was having, it was actually a given that it was going to be something bad.

He glanced at the caller ID. Alexx. Why wasn't he more surprised? The damsel's daughter—Amanda, Miranda, Cassandra, whatever her name was—was staying with Alexx, wasn't she? Which meant Alexx had known more about what was going on with his lover before he had. Had probably thought about the situation and realized what Horatio's relationship with Monica must have been like. Which meant she somehow knew he was going to be having a minor heart attack about now, and probably psychically knew he was pretending to read his book while Horatio took care of the dishes in an attempt to not unravel at the situation.

"Speed."

"Hey honey. How are things going?

_Shitty. But what did I expect? This is my life we're talking about. _

"Fine" is what he actually said, doing his best to keep his voice even. "What's up, Alexx?"

"I was calling to get the plans straightened out for your birthday, because I need to know what kind of cake to get and how many people I should be serving. I thought I would also let Horatio what's happening with his girl."

"Alexx, I don't really care about that."

"Well honey, we do. Bryan and Jamie have been coming up with ideas for weeks for how we should celebrate your birthday, and you know you don't want to disappoint them."

Tim sighed. Alexx's kids were good kids that for some reason liked him. A lot. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he had known them for six years, had babysat them on many occasions. Ironically, watching Bryan and Jamie hadn't inspired him to want kids of his own, despite how well behaved they had been.

"They just want you to make the chocolate fudge cake they love," Speed joked. "Besides, Alexx, nobody in Miami celebrates turning 31. It's a sign your life is practically over."

"Speaking as somebody who's over that age, I count every birthday as a blessing and celebrate it as such," Alexx replied with just a hint of condescension. "Now what's really going on, baby? You're keeping a tight rein on that anger, but I can still hear it."

Yep, hiding things from Alexx was impossible. Tim got out of his seat and checked what his lover was doing. Peering around the plaster column, he could see Horatio was just about done with the dishes, so continuing the conversation in the living room wasn't an option. He quickly walked to the bathroom down the hall, locking the door after entering.

He sat on the edge of porcelain tub before bring the cell phone back to his ear. "He loved her Alexx. He never really got over her."

"Oh baby," Alexx cried, "I can understand why you're upset, but you know Horatio. He holds his feelings close to the vest, and as much as he gives of himself, he lets very few people in."

"Yeah, and she was clearly one of them," Tim interjected. "He still loves her, Alexx. Even though he hasn't seen her in over fifteen years, even though she's now gone, he still loves her."

"Yes, Timmy, he probably does," Alexx agreed, "but you still love Andrew, don't you? A piece of your heart will always belong to him, yes?"

He still felt a stabbing pain in his chest at the mention of his old lover's name. He had been a senior in high school—Andrew a freshman in college—when Andrew had been shot. What the bullets to the spine hadn't taken, the one to the head had. Andrew could barely move and had suffered significant damage to his brain. He had no short term memory, parts of his long term memory were patchy, and he suffered rapid mood swings and inability to focus. Essentially, the person Andrew had been was gone.

That hadn't stopped Tim. The doctors had said there was very little chance Andrew would make more than a "modest" recovery: he probably would regain most of the motor function in his upper body but would never walk again, and would never get back the cognitive functions he had lost. Tim had worked his ass off to get his boyfriend into the teaching hospital that worked with Columbia University and into a neurology research study that should have saved his life.

Except it hadn't. Loosing Andrew three years later had just about destroyed Tim. He had taken the rest of the semester off and just started driving, no set destination in mind. He just had to get away from everything that reminded him of Andrew. He had wandered down to Miami, and, as they say, the rest was history.

Eleven years later and the pain hadn't gone away, not really. Lessened. Faded a bit. But was tangible all the same. Because, yeah, he hadn't stopped loving Andrew.

"Yeah, yah it will," Tim finally answered, the air rushing out of his lungs with the weight of his words.

"Then what Horatio is feeling probably isn't any different, is it?" Leave it to Alexx to suddenly turn the tables on him, too.

"No, you're probably right." Tim sighed. "I mean, I know it's not rational to be jealous of someone who's dead. The way he talked about her, though, Alexx, it makes me wonder…"

"If he would be with her if she hadn't left—"his 'adopted' mom finished. Yep, if Speed believed in psychics, he would wonder if she was one. "Honey, you know as well as I do there's no way to tell that, and there's no sense in getting caught up in 'what ifs.' What happened, happened, and it happened a long time ago. That's the only thing you got to keep in mind to get through this." She paused for a moment. "But I will say this: when I spoke to him earlier, he didn't seem as upset over her death as when you and Eric got caught in that club fire."

Yeah, well, Horatio hadn't been the only one scared about what happened at Club Descent. Dispo Day had happened only a week before—one of the reasons Speed had actually gone to the club that night with Eric was to blow off some steam from being interrogated by IAB to attending Officer Hollis' funeral—and then before Tim knew it, they were trapped in a building that _was on fire_ with the doors chained shut. Two near-death experiences in such a small amount of time had been nerve racking. If Tim didn't know any better, he would have thought Death was after him.

"Yeah, well, he wasn't the only one."

"Don't I know it, Timmy," Alexx remarked. "But I think Horatio's concern right now is Miranda."

"The daughter?" Tim wasn't really surprised. Horatio's protective nature really came out when children were involved. If Tim believed in psychology—which he didn't, not most of it anyway—he would have thought that the reason so such a strong reaction was because of Horatio's own past as a victim, although that was a subject Tim didn't see himself bringing up anytime soon. The few times it had come up, his lover had spoken about his childhood through gritted teeth, never really making eye contact. Yeah, Tim didn't need to know all the details to know it was bad.

"She's been through a lot and you know as well as I do that things are going to get worse before they get any better."

"Yeah," Tim sighed again. Watching someone you love die right before your eyes just wasn't something you got over, for the obvious reasons. And in this case, he knew Horatio well enough to know that Horatio would be determined to help the girl overcome her grief every step of the way. Horatio was too close to the situation to do otherwise. "That's what's bothering me too. I mean, I get it. I really do. They had something, something—" he choked on the word—"special, and she obviously wanted her daughter as protected as she had been years ago. But obviously, she moved on. She had a child with someone else. Why didn't she send her daughter to them, huh? I know that's a petty thought, but I really don't give a damn. What right does she have—dead or not—to make Horatio relive what happened as well as what didn't?"

Alexx was silent for the longest time. Speed almost thought he'd lost signal before she spoke again.

"You didn't see Miranda when she came in, did you?" she asked calmly.

"No, I've been running around collecting lotion samples. Why?"

"Timmy, I need to speak to Horatio for a minute. You can think about what kind of cake you want while we talk," Alexx ordered, though there was no heat to the words. He thought the abrupt command was odd, but was trying not to read too much into it. This was Alexx, after all. If there was something going on that he didn't know about, she would certainly tell him.

"Sure." Tim promptly left the room and found his lover in the living room, sitting in the recliner, seemingly lost in thought. "Here. It's Alexx. She wanted to talk to you." He held out the phone.

Horatio wasn't surprised and wordlessly took his cell. He slowly walked out the room before putting the phone up to his ear. "Yes Alexx?"

Tim was too far away to hear the rest of the conversation, and he wasn't the eavesdropping sort. Well, most of the time anyway. He went back to his seat and once again tried to read, but after he read over the page four times and still didn't have a clue what it said, he gave up. Chocolate or vanilla? Like that was much of a decision!

Ten minutes later, Horatio walked back into the living room, looking almost as upset as he had been when they first had gotten home, although determined too. He passed the phone back to Tim, not quite meeting his eyes.

"There's something I have to do. I'll be right back. Alexx has some more questions for you." He left without another word—something totally not like his lover at all—and left Tim with a sinking suspicion that something else was going on that he didn't know about. Though he wouldn't let that last for long. Keeping secrets from a CSI was next to impossible, and Speed was nothing but a damn good CSI.

"So, Alexx, when should I show up for my own party?"

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

Horatio had been interrupted from facing the truth before, but there was nothing to interrupt him now. Angry from his early cowardice, he gripped the paper just a little bit too tight. He knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep until he knew the truth, and for that reason alone he needed an answer. But it just wasn't about him.

Alexx had pointed out to him that Tim's life would be adversely affected by whatever the answer was. And Horatio knew Miranda, who had her entire world turned upside down, needed the answers to her questions about her past if she was going to overcome her mother's perceived betrayal. It was just as important, if not more so, that he learn whether Miranda was his daughter for them as well as himself.

Unceremoniously, he held the paper Valera had handed him along side the DNA profile Megan had printed out for the record years ago, and followed the evidence.

He hoped Tim would understand…

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

The next day, bright and early in the morning, Eric, Speed and Calleigh gathered with Yelina in one of the layout rooms. The team hadn't been called out yet, though that might have been because the night shift had just left two hours before.

Speed wasn't in the best of moods, having not slept well the night before. Horatio had rushed off to the beach after taking care of…whatever it was he had to take care of, only to bolt for a morning run before getting ready for work. They hadn't showered together as Speed had planned, which only fueled his snark.

Meanwhile, Calleigh and Eric were both chipper. Speed could guess as to why, considering that the two had ridden in together. He wondered why they were being so bold, but then had an obnoxious little voice tell him that while the rest of the department wouldn't like it, there was nothing stopping his two teammates from having an open relationship. That just made him crankier.

Yelina had managed to get in contact with the phone company and pulled Olivia Delacriox's phone records. Olivia received a call once a week from her mother in Baton Rouge, a number Yelina recognized after calling it yesterday to inform the woman her daughter was gone. There were several calls from Keaner, most weren't even answered as far as the team could tell, but it collaborated his story.

There were also a number of calls to and from another doctor at the practice.

The calls weren't that long, all things considered. Yet it was something that the CSIs needed to inquire about. Because the answer would mean the difference between a deliberate murder or an accidental one.

They went over all the evidence one more time. Valera had gotten back with them; none of the DNA swabs they had gathered were so far a match. The lotion—type and brand—were a match to the trace on the knife. Eric and Calleigh informed Yelina and Speed what they had learned from Annabel at Le Fleur de Lis that night.

"One of the waiters thought they were talking about Claymore having an affair," Eric said.

"Which was why I checked out what Public Records had on the Claymores and Keaner this morning," Calleigh continued. "Turns out, the first Mrs. Dennis Keaner married her husband's college buddy and co-worker five years ago after finding out about her husband's affairs and giving up on him getting into rehab. This was in Virginia." Speed raised his eyebrows. That could begin to explain Keaner accusing his so-called best friend, but there had to be more than that. "Claymore left the practice he was a part of and they moved down here to south Florida, Keaner following after marrying the receptionist he was having an affair with and paying his debt to state of Virginia."

"Apparently, the two made-up, because they became business partners, forming their own practice," Eric added. "Keaner's name isn't just on the door, it's on a lot of legal documents too."

"But according to Mrs. Keaner _numero dos_ and her divorce attorney, her husband started getting a roving eye a year and a half ago and they split," Calleigh reported.

"Which really, serves her right, since she new he was a cheater," Eric commented. Speed just stared pointedly at him. There was a Southern expression he had heard Calleigh use once—_the pot calling the kettle black_. Yeah, ditto Eric.

Of course, Speed knew that was the old Eric, the pre-Club Descent-fire Eric. This Eric wouldn't cheat, especially on Calleigh. She'd kill him. Literally. And they'd all help hide his body.

Eric looked ashamed for a split second before Calleigh piped in. "Using behavior as evidence, I can't help but think that this really tells us a lot about our suspects."

"Yes. What if that wasn't the first time Claymore became involved with a woman Keaner had?" Yelina pondered. "That could be our motive."

"And that would explain why the doctor thinks so highly of his college buddy," Speed mused. "Though it doesn't explain why he wanted in those files so damn badly."

"Except that as far as we can tell, Claymore and Olivia weren't involved," Eric pointed out.

"But I bet Mrs. Claymore didn't know that," Calleigh countered.

"We'll find out once we tell Claymore his alibi fell through," Speed said. Yelina nodded.

They all agreed there was enough evidence to ask Dr. Carl Claymore to come in for questioning, and his wife.

TBC…


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** _1). I'm not dead. 2). The reality of being a post-grad adult and the moving-in-to-a-new-apartment stress, bill-paying, overworked-and-under-paid lifestyle it induces gave me a writer's block. The first second of this story was written within two weeks of the last time I posted. The rest—well, let's say I've been writing it sentence by sentence, because I literally have not had the time to focus on it more than that. 3). This is a transition/background chapter, so the plot only moves a step forward. What's written isn't everything I meant to be in it, but I've waited long enough to update, so chapter 15 will ultimately be longer as a result. 4).The goal is to have the next chapter, which I've already started, posted by the end of September because I WILL NOT ABANDON MY STORY!_

_Again, not beta read. No surprise, I haven't had the time to look for a proper beta._

* * *

_**My mother was a phoenix who always expected to rise from the ashes of her latest disaster. She loved being Judy Garland.—Lorna Luft**_

The team split. Speed went to talk to Keaner one more time while Eric and Yelina went to pick up the Claymores. Calleigh would catch up to them after she got the warrant to search the Claymore home and for the clothes they were wearing the night of the murder. Calleigh, however, had one more task. She wanted to let Horatio know what was going on, both professionally and personally.

She knocked on her boss' office door. She could hear him talking—probably on the phone—so she knew he was still in. She was more than a little surprised that her lieutenant hadn't been more involved in their murder investigation. She only saw him this rarely when the team was working more than one fresh case. As luck would have it, this week was a slow one for the dayshift. The nightshift, on the other hand, reportedly had their table filled with a rash of tourist murders and robberies. So, no other cases.

Unless it was a personal matter…

"Come in." Calleigh had a signature knock, so Horatio would have been surprised if anyone else besides her came in. He was, in fact, on the phone with the warden for the Florida State Penitentiary in Tampa, finally hearing back that he was allowed a visitation. "Thank you, Sir. I'll be heading there now. If you have Castenada in a holding room when I get there, I'd appreciate it."

He hung up the phone. He felt like it had been attached to his ear since the moment he walked in to his office this morning. Another reason he didn't stay in his office for long. "Morning Calleigh. What can I do for you?"

"Thought I'd let you know we're bringing the Claymores in for questioning and I'm running to get the warrant. Anything I can do for you while we're out?"

He shook his head. He wasn't surprised that the team was reaching towards the final stages of their investigation in less than two days. Horatio had taught them to be thorough and objective, working for the victim and yet working quickly, knowing time was crucial as both pertinent evidence and the ability to capture the perpetrator were affected by it. "Good work. Just continue to keep me updated."

"Thanks, and I will." Calleigh almost closed the door before she turned right back around, clearly nervous. "Actually, Horatio, there is one more thing."

Eyebrows raised, he motioned for her to sit down, which the ballistics expert gladly did. She chose the chair not 24 hours ago he had sat Miranda in.

"I really don't know how to say this," Calleigh admitted.

"Take your time then, sweetheart," Horatio said easily. If he made the warden and the prisoner wait, then he made them wait. Ever since Calleigh had learned about him and Speed, the two had developed more of a brother/sister relationship. Although less flirty, it was a stronger one; a relationship built on years of friendship and trust. After Speed, Calleigh was his best friend and, sometimes, she even understood him better than Speed did.

Calleigh took a breath. "Eric and I have been—well, we've been seeing each other for awhile now. But I wouldn't say we've started a real relationship until recently." Her eyes narrowed at the smile on his face. "But I'm guessing you already knew that."

"Know? No. But between the looks and touches you two were sharing, I assumed it would be only a matter of time," Horatio explained. "I'm glad you told me."

His soft tone had her smiling. "I know department regulations frown on romantic relationships—"

"Calleigh—" he interrupted. "I trust you and Eric to behave in a professional manner on the job, no matter what the circumstances are."

"And you don't have any idea how happy I am to have that trust. I just don't have the greatest track record dating a member of the MDPD or the New Orleans DP for that matter," Calleigh replied. "Stetler's already snoopin' around here enough then any of us are comfortable with. If he gets wind of me and Eric—"

"Let Stetler be my concern," Horatio interjected. He himself was not acting in accordance to department policy, for some very obvious reasons, and not for the first time, either. If anyone should be taking Stetler's ire, it would be him,

"Horatio, you alone shouldn't have to stand between us and the bully," Calleigh complained. While she appreciated the chivalry, she was a grown adult and she did not want her friends' careers being hurt because of her actions. "We're not children on the playground. I was goin' to say that Stetler havin' any reason to mope around here can't be good for you and Tim either. You know I have your back if anything happens, but I don't want anything to happen to any of us. Which is why I wanted to tell you now, so we can compile evidence for all of us; that in the event the department has a problem, that these relationships haven't affected our working relationship negatively. Because I can't imagine not working with you and Tim, Alexx and Tripp, every day; not seeing Eric almost every hour of every day."

"You've given this a lot of thought," Horatio commented.

Calleigh nodded. "All my other relationships, work's always gotten in the way or compromised them. I can't let that happen this time. There's too much at stake, even more than there was all those other times before. Because this time, I've found a family with you guys, and I know Eric feels that he has too. There's so much to loose that, at first, I couldn't think about taking the risk: it just wasn't an option."

She took a breath. "But now that I have—I've got to do everything by the book: letting you know so you can separate Eric and I when it's necessary and any other measures that might have to come about."

"I do appreciate your concerns and your honesty, Cal," he said. "I'll let you know if anything comes up."

"Alright." Calleigh rose. "Now I believe I've taken enough of your time and I've got a warrant to fetch." She went to the door. "I'll see you later."

"You can count on it."

Still a little emotional, Calleigh didn't dare think about what she had just confessed. Instead, as she took the elevator down to the garage, she thought about the conversation she had overheard. Horatio was going to visit an inmate named Castenada. Funny, wasn't that who's DNA Valera was comparing to an unknown sample on one of the machines Calleigh had seen briefly when she stopped in the DNA lab after she had come back from her B&E? Was it just a coincidence that it was also Valera who told her not to pay attention to the gossip running amok yesterday among the techs?

Call it a hunch, but she thought the two incidences were connected. Maybe Eric was on to something—well, at least possibly about Horatio working on a side project. And everyone in the lab seemed to think they could keep it from the rest of the team, didn't they? Well, they were sorely mistaken. Just as soon as Calleigh helped solve Olivia Delacroix's murder, she was going to find out what that connection was.

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

Speed found himself wandering down to holding. Good thing suspects got stashed down there for 24 hours, or else he would have had to drive down to the courthouse or even Biscayne County Jail in order to talk to Keaner. That would have soured his already salty mood, sitting in the Hummer through the morning rush hour, which would be twice as clogged with tourist traffic, with the radio station DJs constantly yacking instead of playing music. Because it wouldn't be an emergency, he couldn't use the siren to clear a way through the congestion.

Yeah, there was more than one reason he usually rode a bike to work.

And that was more or less the point, wasn't it? He hadn't woken up on the wrong side of the bed, he'd just woken up alone in bed. His morning routine was in shambles.

To those who didn't know him well, Speed might have come off as someone who didn't care for procedure or professionalism, with the rock-n-roll T-shirts and the rebellious hair. That was of course, not the truth. He detested the rules that curbed individuality and free-thinking, but understood the necessity of a uniform process for analyzing evidence better than 95% of the department. Megan had been worried about his wild streak, too, but that hadn't stopped her from hiring him once she realized he understood laboratory technique better than she did.

He liked his routine, damn it. He liked going to sleep next to someone else, waking up next to someone he cared about, letting desire awaken both body and mind and remind him there was something better out there than murder and greed, that there was something worth fighting for.

It wasn't the first time Speed had woken up to find his lover in some level of distress. Horatio frequently had nightmares, although he said he hadn't had as many since he and Tim had gotten together. But this was different. Horatio was deliberately avoiding _him_.

Speed knew the signs; hell, he had used the tactics himself when matters of his own past had come up that he didn't want to talk about. But Horatio was the confrontational one, the one that nine times out of ten, would face the issue head on. Except, of course, when it came to family. After all, his lover would rather let Yelina think that he'd fathered a child with an informant than tell her that not only did her husband cheat on her, but also that her brother-in-law was more partial to men than to women.

And that's where, really, Speed's nerves were worn raw. Because this wasn't about a Caine-Family-Mess-Up as far as he could tell. This was about _her_ and _her kid_ and, he theorized, _what could have been_ and as much as he tried to keep Alexx's words in mind, it was hard to do without the reassurance he usually got from Horatio every minute they were together. Maybe he needed to get 'his mom' to that 'what happened, happened' conservation with his lover too.

"Speedle." The uniformed officer on duty recognized him, so there was no need to flash his badge, though he did sign on the log that he was heading into holding.

"I need to speak to Keaner before he's arraigned. Just a few follow-up questions, so there's no reason to drag him up top."

"You know the rules," the officer—O'Tool was patched on the top pocket of the uniform—said as of a way of giving them. Speed nodded as he handed over his gun—not that he was a fan of carrying it anyway—through the slat.

"Any more than ten minutes with this guy and I might be tempted to shoot him anyway," Speed said. A second later, the buzz rang out and he was able to walk down the aisle of holding cells, most filled with those formally drunk or on drugs. A few of the night shift's collars were waiting for morning transport as well. Finally he found the cell he wanted. He wasn't surprised that the doctor was alone, his clothes only a little more rumpled than the day before.

"So did you complain loud enough that you got a cell by yourself or did you lawyer already stop by?"

The glare Speed got was entirely expected. "You all may get away with treating the rest of them like animals, but not me," Keaner snarled.

"Uh huh, I guess a long time user like you would start feeling withdraw right about now." Was Speed sympathetic? Not really.

"What the hell do you want now? Here to accuse me of murder again? Let me guess. One of the receptionists that work the front desk died and because Carl-lee told you about a crush I had on her, you think I killed her too!" the doctor ranted bitterly. Speed was beginning to think the man might have actually had feelings for his office romance, but that was part of his MO too.

"I've got a couple of questions for you about 'Carl-lee' and Olivia."

"I'm not talking to you without my lawyer."

Speed ignored him. "You can either answer them and help yourself out, or not and wonder why your best friend gets away with murder while you're in a 6 by 6 room cell, which, just to let you know, is nothing like rehab."

It was the 'gets away with murder' line that did the trick. The tired eyes widen in shock.

"Carl killed Olivia? Why?"

"That's what I was hoping you would tell me," Speed answered honestly. "After all, you accused him of killing her, and you were the one desperate to get in his files and Dr. Hicks'."

"I didn't think you would believe me."

"Really, I don't. I'm following the evidence and, as annoyed as I am to say this, you hold a piece of that evidence."

Keaner went from shocked to smug. Speed immediately wanted to knock it off his face. Smug was not what he needed, not today or any other day. What he needed, and what Horatio was usually great at delivering, was a cause for duress.

"What is it you think I know and what's in it for me if I were to tell you?"

"What's in it for you?" Speed almost huffed. "Depends on how useful your information is. If it leads us to a conviction, then you might manage to scrape out of that prison sentence. If you jerk us around, you can expect the state's attorney to definitely not be lenient on you. How does that sound?"

"That's not good enough," the man grounded out, his back straightening with the assertion.

"Hey, I'm not the DA and I'm only interested in solving Olivia's murder. You know, Olivia, the woman you claimed to care about? You have a funny way of showing it," Speed retorted.

"How dare you!"

Speed rolled his eyes at the indignation and then proceeded to check his watch. "And three minutes have already been wasted with chit-chat, so you've got less than another minute to decide if you're going to be helpful or not."

The waiting game lasted about twenty seconds, five more than Speed had expected, the time spent by Keaner proclaiming that what the CSI was doing couldn't be constitutional, that he wanted his lawyer, the he wasn't letting some self-righteous badge give him a guilt trip. Considering he didn't even know what the questions were, the trace expert thought he sure had a lot to say.

Then, when he finally closed his mouth for two seconds, Speed took his shot. "I want to know what Claymore had on you that had you rifling through his office. It has something to do with Olivia, because you've already given that away. You looked both at your best friend's office and the office that Olivia had access to as Dr. Hicks' secretary. It can't just be about the affair because everyone at your office knew about it. What I don't get is why you would be stupid enough to trust the guy who married your ex-wife."

"You don't know what you're talking about. He owed me. That was enough. Or at least, it should've been," Keaner retorted.

"Then don't fry your brain again and use little words to explain it to me," Speed belittled, his thumb and forefinger spacing over the word 'little.'

"Carl and I met in med school. We helped each other out. We became fast friends. When Carl got out with a psychiatry degree, I was the one that talked the practice into taking him on," Keaner started. "Then I met Crista. She was beautiful and willing to put up with the strain of being with someone under the strain of dealing with the wailing ill every day. Carl met her first, but hadn't the courage to ask her out. But he said he had no harsh feelings about it."

The doctor chuckled acrimoniously. "Or so I thought. Because I didn't realize how paranoid Crista was, or how willing Carl was to provide a shoulder to cry on."

"Paranoid?" Speed inquired, because that was what he really wanted to know about anyway.

"She always questioned where I was when I got home from working late; who'd been with me at the office; why I worked so late and where I had been when she called and found out I wasn't at work. She checked our phone records to make sure I wasn't calling someone she didn't know. She harassed every woman I worked with." Speed gave Keaner a similar look to the one he had shot at Eric earlier.

"This was way before I started dating Linda," Keaner added, seemingly obvious to the condescension.

"Okay, then I guess the missing time had more to do with the drugs than anything else," Speed commented.

"I used them to stay awake after the long hours and have some fun when I actually have some time to be social," the doctor defended. "I've never killed anybody or done anything to endanger someone else's life. That's more than people who've driven drunk can attest to."

"Whatever," Speed bristled. He didn't have time for an argument. "What does this have to do with the attempted breaking and entering you did?"

"Linda stood by me when I went into rehab and she was the only one. Carl contacted me when I got out. He said he felt bad about telling Crista what I was doing, both about the drugs and Linda," Keaner explained. "That he was going to help me the way I had helped him years ago. And everything started out okay too. I joined the practice and Carl helped me out with my court-appointed therapy."

"Seems like a logical choice. He already knew what your vices were, covering for each other for years," Speed commented. "So what went wrong?"

"Olivia, of course."

_Dennis rounded the corner, heading to the break room to grab another cup of coffee. He didn't snort at work—at least, he hadn't in years—and he was going to need something to stimulate his brain this morning. It took him about two seconds to realize he has to go around someone to get through the doorway, but another minute to realize why the doorway is blocked to begin with. Half the office—or so it seems—has piled into the kitchenette._

_Standing at the back of the room is Carl, his hands clasped around a white handkerchief, one that just happened to match the shade of the suit he was wearing. The man always carried handkerchiefs, but now they're sported as accessories. That's something he doesn't understand about Miami—this obsession with fashion. It was driving up his credit card bill, courtesy of Linda, that's all he knew. _

_But he stopped looking for coffee and started starring at the coffee colored locks that draped around an oval face. The fuchsia pink, sleeveless blouse accentuated her curves as much as her tight, black skirt slimmed and yet showed off her waist. The young woman smiled pleasantly at the nurses. A pang of desire hit him for the first time in ages, and not the kind he found when he picked up a woman at the bar after work._

"—_she joins us with a background in psychology and customer service," Carl said. "I would like you to welcome Olivia to her practice. I know she will be working directly with Dr. Hicks, but if she has any questions, I would like everyone to help her out as she gets situated."_

"_I look forward," Olivia said, her southern draw creeping into her voice, "to working with you all." Their eyes met and for a second, they lingered. Like his and Crista's had lingered. Like with Linda._

_He'd been served divorce papers today, but that didn't matter. He and Linda hadn't been really married for a better part of a year. Miami was supposed to be a fresh start for them, a place where their relationship could be out in the open and honest. But the city had ruined them. Linda spent all day at a plastic surgeons' office, seeing women come in and out all day who she thought were prettier than her. She drove up their credit card bills to keep up with 'the competition'. He'd slowly slipped into the partying lifestyle that Linda hadn't wanted to ever be a part of. If they weren't arguing about money, he was defending himself._

_The brunette in front of him did matter. She was smart and beautiful, confident in a way the other two women in his life weren't. Olivia knew she was beautiful and fashionable. She wasn't thinking about the future, just the present._

_She had each hand on the arms of his chair, encircling him. He was turned away from the papers on his desk and the door to his office. He loosened his tie with anticipation. Olivia's lips could do wonders for him, wherever she put them on his body._

_She graced him with a teasing smirk. "So what kind of medicine should I dispense today, Dr. Keaner?" She tilted her head forward until they were barely an inch apart. "Would kisses make everything better or do we need something…stronger?"_

_He was about to answer when Carl came bustling in. "Dennis I need you to look over this—" Carl looked up that instant to see them in that intimate pose. Olivia quickly backed away. _

"_I'll try to have that file ready for you in the hour," she quickly said, swiping a random file off his desk and walking towards Carl. The man was too busy trying to decide what his reaction should be that he failed to get out of the way. Their shoulders practically slammed against each other as she left. The "Dr. Claymore" she said in acknowledgement was an afterthought._

_She was barely down the hall when Carl started into him. "What the Hell do you think you are doing! You're married to Linda, remember? The woman you left Crista for?" Dennis spun his chair around to fully face the man. "You said you would kick both of your habits. That was what we agreed on when I said we would take on this practice together and I would be your therapist! You're going back on yourself, repeating yourself, repeating history? Why the Hell are you throwing it all away?"_

_Dennis lazily tossed the papers at his friend, unperturbed. "I can't throw away anything that's already gone."_

_The man was somehow more shocked by the legal work than what he walked in on._

_The sessions were just like anyone would expect. Dennis would relay the stresses of the day, his thoughts on personal matters—the divorce in particular, seemed to be Carl's favorite topic of discussion. Why, he couldn't imagine. It was going a lot smoother than the last one. And now there was this window of opportunity that he hadn't had before. To enjoy life as he wanted to enjoy it._

_And that's all he wanted to talk about. Livvie. Because telling his 'sponsor' about his mild clubbing and other 'relapses' was out of the question._

_That was the only noticeable change over the months. Dennis would rattle on and on, answering whatever 'insightful' question his friend could come up with, Carl squibbling down note after note in his file like he was any other patient._

_So he didn't understand when he approached Livvie at the office, her putting some last minute clients' files away in the cabinet, his hands going to her hips, to have her brush him off. Just about everyone had left, so he knew it couldn't be that she was worried about getting caught. When he tried again, he was rebuffed._

"_Stop it!" was the stern command issued from her. _

"_Okay," he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Had a bad day or something?"_

_She promptly turned around. "I don't think we should see each other anymore."_

_Stunned, he asked, "You're joking right? This is your way of getting back at me for that nurse's uniform comment the other night, right? You know I didn't mean it, baby."_

"_Look," she slammed the file cabinet closed. "All we're doin' is foolin' around—a no strings attached relationship—which was fine, is fine. But I want out. This isn't working for me anymore."_

"_Hey," he grabbed her arm. "Did I do something wrong? Because you can tell me."_

_She wrenched her arm away and took a couple of steps to put some distance between them. "I won't be the _possession of an addict_, okay!" She stomped off. _

_As Dennis turned to go after her, he saw Carl watching them as he locked his office door. _

_He'd racked his brains, thinking of what he possibly could have done to make her think he was an addict. Yeah, he'd snorted up once or twice in front of her, but that was at the parties they'd gone to together. And that had been rare. _

_But he couldn't get any more out of her. She'd avoided him, deliberately scheduling her day so she was out of his sight. She'd told him not to call her "Livvie" anymore. At first, Dennis decided that it wasn't going to be over because she said it was over, but because_ he said_ it was over._

_That didn't last long._

_Because he still saw her everyday. And each time he saw her, Dennis remembered how she had made him feel, and he wanted more. He was addicted to her. No one had made him feel like she did. It had taken her walking away from him to realize that he was in love with her._

_The nurses rolled their eyes when he tried to approach Livvie. One had even told him that she was dating someone. He knew that if he could figure out what had really set her off, he would get her back._

_So he walked past her desk around lunch. Livvie was slinging files around, slamming file cabinets left and right, her heels hitting the carpet just a little harder than usual. Finally she sat down at her desk and typed at the computer rapidly. She didn't look up when he walked by._

"_Hey Livvie," Dennis greeted her cheerfully, tossing his apple in the air. She briefly shot him a nasty look before looking back at the screen._

"_Whatever you want, I'm not interested," she replied sternly, the pace of her typing picking up. He ignored her. She was probably having a bad day._

"_I wanted to see if you wanted lunch," he stated nonchalantly._

"_What part of 'I'm not interested' did you not understand?" she retorted. "Oh wait, selective hearing, along with compulsive lyin', cheatin' on whatever wife you're married to and snortin' is all part of your M.O., isn't it, Mr. Addictive Personality?" The words stopped him cold, but Livvie didn't seem to notice. "So I'll just have to spell it out to you. I'm not going to be your latest obsession or addiction, or Mrs. Dennis Keaner number three, or whatever! Carl told me how this is going to end and I couldn't agree more. You need to get over yourself and leave me the _hell_ alone."_

_She then stopped acknowledging his presence all together, typing away at the computer like there was no tomorrow. The feeling of dread mixed with rage settling in his stomach like an anvil. Carl. This was all Carl's fault. He'd told her things. He hadn't been certain before…but now…_

_He hid in his office all day, fuming. He was glad he had made plans to have friends over at his house that evening because he was going to need to let off some steam. But first he had to get back at his so called friend._

_Finally, he heard Carl leave in a rush. So it was their anniversary. Dennis hoped both Crista and Carl rot in hell. He didn't have to be a head doctor to know that Carl had stabbed him so far in the back he punctured his hear because of some effed up obligation to __her__._

_But was Dennis going to let him get away with it? No!_

_Checking to see if the rest of the staff were gone, he went to Carl's office. He turned to filing cabinets and tried to open them, bound and determine to see exactly what his business partner had written in his 'confidential file.' Of course, the damn thing wouldn't budge. He quickly searched for keys to no avail. But that wasn't going to stop him. He quickly grabbed the letter opener off of Carl's desk. It had 'University of Virginia Class of 1990.' Dennis scowled. The letter opener wasn't even Carl's but his from his undergraduate degree. The man was determined to take everything from him! _

_He took the letter opener and jabbed it in the locks, tried to use the blade to pry the metal open. It was no use. The damn thing wouldn't budge. He was about to erupt in frustration when he had a thought: it would just be like Carl to give Livvie the entire file and if anyone suspected something, insist he had misplaced it._

_So Dennis went to Dr. Hicks office, where Livvie always returned the files at the end of the day. He knew Hicks was a slacker when it came to things like locking doors and making reports. He went to Hicks' office and tried the same tactics, only it didn't work. Apparently Hicks didn't think about locking his doors because he had his files locked. He was about to go at the cabinet harder when he heard them. Frenec and Livvie. The office manager was getting ready to leave ,inquiring into how much longer Livvie would be staying._

_The brunette's reply was as curt and polite as she could make it, saying without words what she was thinking. Madeline said her goodnight and quickly headed out of the office, Dennis holding his breath all the while. He had thought all the staff had gone home. If he had been caught by either of them, word would get back to Carl for sure._

_This was useless. He couldn't find his file and without it, he couldn't take Carl on._

_Frustrated, Dennis looked at his watch. He needed to live if he was going to meet his guests. _

_He was going to get back at Carl for this. Oh, yes. Livie was the one thing he had going for him at this job. She was the best thing that had happened to him. He wasn't going to loose her. He just needed to come back when no one was around, and then he'd get Carl._

_Dennis quickly snuck out. He had a party to host, after all._

"He showed her my file, without my permission, without me there to explain my actions! I can't prove it, but I know he did. And I lost her because of him. Because he can't be the hero just once, no, no, he has to save every damsel that comes his way. So what happened to her, it's his fault," Keaner finished. "Or else she would have been with me the night she died."

The connections were slowly formulating in Speed's head—cause and effect, action and reaction—and the events that lead up to Delacroix's death were taking shape. The reason wasn't an obvious one, but a tangled and convoluted answer.

"That's what I needed to know," Speed said, as the last seconds of his time dwindled down. He turned around and walked back the way he came, signaling to O'Tool to let him out. Stupid mistakes. People made a lifetime's worth of them. And while most of them only burdened the people who made them, the Claymores' were going to have to answer for theirs, because they had gotten a young woman killed.

CSIMIAMICSIMIAMICSIMIAMI

Horatio drove his MDPD assigned hummer up the highway. On most days, it would take time—hours—to get to the state capital. But he was acting in an official capacity, which gave him leeway to exceed the speed limit as long as he didn't drive recklessly. He tried to not think of it as abusing power as he drove. He kept telling himself that time _was_ of the essence and with Miranda's life possibly at stake. That imbued him to push on the gas petal a little more.

He had his CBC radio on so in the event Dispatch needed to contact him or there was an incident that required all available units, they could reach him and he could respond. As he listened to the call codes, it didn't cease to amaze him all the accidents, fender-benders, and crimes of all varieties that were called into Dispatch within an hour. Miami was currently the road rage capital of the country, but the rest of the state was hardly any better.

His thoughts slowly drifted. First to Speed. Alexx had called to ask him about his birthday, which was next week. Speed didn't like celebrating birthdays, and especially not in an elaborative manner. But he would let Alexx bake him a cake and fix him a nice dinner. He would accept small presents of books, culinary instruments, or tools for his bike from his friends informally. He would always spend part of his special day with Alexx since she "adopted" him.

Alexx was the first to learn of their relationship, the first to support it. Speed had told her years ago that he was gay, ironically, in an attempt to drive the former doctor away. He had assumed that, like many people that had entered his life, the knowledge of his sexuality would repulse her into leaving him alone. Not the smartest move, Speed had admitted to him, as he had forgotten in the heat of the moment that the medical examiner could have ruined blossoming career, if she'd been inclined. Instead, Alexx had just pointedly stared at the green trace expert and said "and that matters how?"

From that moment on, Alexx began being Speed's mother hen, seeing as the rest of his family had abandoned him. Speed did have an uncle in Miami that he visited once a month, but besides being his landlord, they weren't close. And Alexx insisted every year that Tim spend some of his special day with his family, if only for a meal.

What Speed didn't know was that Alexx and Horatio had teamed up this year to make this birthday memorable. While Tim would be having lunch and cake with the Woods family, Horatio would be getting dinner ready, chilling the wine and setting the mood. Calleigh had agreed to run the lab, and had talked Eric into working that day in exchange for a longer 4th of the July weekend off. Susie would be at work at the Agramont but Madison would be spending the day at a HeadStart fitness camp with fifty other children. Stetler—and yes, the thought alone of the IAB agent made him grind his teeth—was taking Yelina and Ray Jr. to Disney World that holiday weekend, so he wasn't sacrificing any personal time with his nephew in order to lead his own life.

There would be no interruptions. No Dispatch calls. No emergencies. No family complications. Just him and Tim. And during that golden window of opportunity, Horatio was going to give Tim a key to his apartment and ask him to move in with Horatio.

That wasn't the only gift he had planned for the night, but the one that would tell how the rest of the night would end. It was a huge move, for sure, and one Horatio had never offered to anyone before. Horatio knew that as sure as he was of Tim's commitment to their relationship, the offer could easily be rejected. Tim was the type of person who was used to being by his self. He'd told Horatio several times that he didn't mind solo cases or spending time alone in the lab, that he could actually focus more by himself then. Not that he didn't mind team work, as long as everyone pulled their own weight.

It was the Speed that worked alone that worried him; that could drive on his Ducati for hours, forgetting to tell anyone where he was going; that craved as much space and control as everyone else craved air. But as Calleigh's comments had echoed earlier, the risk this time was worth the reward.

That led his thoughts back to Miranda and Monica. Another call back to Detective Rouvin had confirmed his suspicions that Monica had been employed as a forensic accountant for Arizona, a position that was jointly held with the local FBI office in Phoenix. He knew a considerable number of protected witnesses had been place in identities that were closely connected with law enforcement to better assure their safety. Of course, he also knew the FBI had wanted Monica's unique services for their own benefit, as finding individuals with the talent to understand number patterns and money trails was rare. It also only confirmed his suspicion that it was someone working in a federal capacity that killed her. Monica had plenty of reasons to send Miranda to him, but trusting an outsider rather than someone within her own agency was a definite clue.

He drove to Florida State Penitentiary knowing that he was probably on a fool's errand. Even if Rafael Castenada did have something to do with Monica's death, he was too much of a businessman to willingly give Horatio the information for free. Horatio would rather deal Castenada to hell.

Because as much as the years might have changed Castenada, Miranda deserved better. From him or anyone else who was responsible for leaving her life in shambles. And as for Monica…_why did you wait until after you were dead to let me know you were in danger? You could have left the program years ago and contacted me to let me know the truth. I had the right to know sooner! Why didn't you tell me?_

He finally switched on the music, as the reports and his train of thought did nothing to help his mood. Country music blared out of the stereo, making him wonder who had fooled with his setting that last time the hummer had been detailed. But the song, while unfamiliar, was somber enough that didn't change the station yet.

_*In my hometown, _

_For anyone who sticks around_

_You're either "Lost" or your "Found"_

_There's not much in between_

_In my hometown,_

_Everything's still "Black" and "White"_

_It's a long, long way from wrong to right_

_From Sunday morning to Saturday night_

_Everybody just wants to get high_

_Sit and watch a perfect world go by_

_We're all looking for love and meaning in our lives_

_We follow the roads that lead us_

_To Drugs or Jesus_

_My whole life_

_I've tried to run, I've tried to hide_

_From the stain glass windows in my mind_

_Refusing to let God's light shine _

_Down on me, down on me_

_Everybody just wants to get high_

_Sit and watch a perfect world go by_

_We're all looking for love and meaning in our lives_

_There's not much space between us_

_Drugs or Jesus_

_Everybody wants acceptance_

_We all just want some proof_

_Everyone's just looking for the truth_

_Everybody just wants to get high_

_Sit and watch a perfect world go by_

_We're all looking for love and meaning in our lives_

_We follow the roads that lead us_

_To Drugs or Jesus_

God, did he remember being that lost once. Of course, his team would never believe he, their ever fearless, cool, determined leader had doubts and despaired about the path his life had taken him. (The exception was Alexx, of course. If his eyes were like a hawk's, than hers were x-rays). Because of the situation with Miranda, he couldn't help but remember his life, fifteen, sixteen years ago. Then, on a day like today, he wouldn't be driving out to visit a convicted man. He would be doing what his team was doing right about now: interviewing a suspect.

TBC…

*Tim McGraw, "Drugs or Jesus"


End file.
